


Lady Obscura: A Rogue One Story

by DarkLadyAthara



Series: The Lady Adyé Series [5]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars
Genre: Athara Adye, Death Star, Gen, Lady Adyé Series, Pre-Original Trilogy, Prequel, The Dark Side of the Force, companion story, pre-episode IV, vader's apprentice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLadyAthara/pseuds/DarkLadyAthara
Summary: A Star Wars Rogue One FanfictionJust as Rogue One serves as a Prologue to Episode IV, this story is a prologue to Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow. It provides a glimpse into Athara's life as Vader's Shadow in the critical lead up to the events that would culminate in the destruction of the Death Star over Yavin IV.A glimpse into the life of Lady Obscura.Companion to the Lady Adyé Series.Can be Read Alone or before the other Stories in the Series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars. I own only my O/Cs and my little plot tweaks. For the record, for this story I have counted only the Films as Canon (along with their corresponding Visual Dictionaries), pulling little bits of info and inspiration from EU and the TV series as I have seen fit.
> 
> This story is technically the direct Prequel to the second story of "The Lady Adyé Trilogy", meaning it takes place immediately before "Lady Obscura: Little More Than a Shadow". 
> 
> This story, while not precisely stand-alone, does not absolutely require familiarity with the other stories to be enjoyed, though it does lead directly into 'Lady Obscura' just as Rogue One leads into Episode IV. 
> 
> Just something to keep in mind.
> 
> This story is also posted on FanFiction. net and Wattpad under the same title and penname.

Her lightsaber was a blur of vibrant crimson as it spun and wove through the air in her practiced hands, the hum alternatively even and comfortingly low or violent and purring as it slashed and cut through the air. The practice droids ultimately stood little chance against her. Only her Master possessed skills that rivalled her own.

But then, Athara’s Master was the only one she’d ever faced or even encountered who wielded a lightsaber as she did. So in that respect, it was a hollow statement.

Today, however, the droids were not falling so quickly as they should. Today, Athara was breaking a true sweat against them. The bolts they fired at her never made their marks, of course, easily deflecting off her crimson blade, but they just kept coming. She couldn’t seem to overcome them. She was too at peace today.

She’d given into the impulse to extend her warm-up exercises, running through the forms and stances that she knew without thinking for longer than was truly necessary, allowing the fluid movements and quicksilver motions to lull her into a sense of peace.

And peace was certainly not a way to the Dark Side. _Peace was a lie_. Athara could all but hear her Master’s scolding tone in her head, urging her to tap into the immense reserves the Dark Side had to offer and not let herself be held back by weaker emotions; it was through passion that she would gain strength, after all. It was a core tenet of the way of the Sith. And with strength came power.

And only with power could she keep herself safe.

Her frustration at being unable to end the session was what finally proved to be the key. That frustration was what finally allowed her to break through the calm her exercises had fostered and tap into the simmering anger lingering in the back of her mind that linked her with the Dark Side. With a sound reminiscent of a snarl, she drew on the Dark Side as she spin and lunged, her lightsaber becoming a veritable shield in her deft hands against the training droids. The live bolts hissed and burst against the crimson blade as she sent them ricocheting back to their source even as she reached out, one of the droids crumpling under an invisible grip as her hand fisted tightly.

A few more heartbeats and the session was ended.

Though her breath still came heavier than she would have liked, Athara straightened easily as her lightsaber fell dark and silent, the boost from the Dark Side easing the aches and the fatigue that had begun to set in as the session dragged on. She wasn’t entirely satisfied, still annoyed that the session had lasted so long in the first place, but she was pleased with how the Force had responded to her call as easily as it did. Slowly but surely, the Dark Side was answering her with greater ease and awareness. Her Master would be pleased, and that in turn pleased Athara.

It had been a source of great aggravation for her Master for many years that Athara could not seem to touch the Dark Side as easily or as completely as her Master or Emperor Palpatine were capable. Sure, she could wield it with great proficiency—which was only apt given how long she had been apprenticed to Darth Vader himself—but she could never quite seem to make that final elusive leap that would bring about her mastery of it.

Not that that truly bothered her in her secret heart of hearts.

Reaching out with the Force, her hand raised and gesturing lazily as it served as a focal point for her will, she sent the droids back to their niches to power down—or in the case of the destroyed one, disposal. Once that had been taken care of and her lightsaber securely reattached to its place on her belt, she was turning and striding out of the rooms set aside for training, heading back to her personal rooms in the quarters set aside for her aboard the _Devastator_ , her Master’s personal flagship. Being aboard the Star Destroyer was as close as Athara got to feeling at home. She’d certainly spent enough time aboard it to consider it as such and, on top of that, was periodically left in command when her Master had business to attend to elsewhere. Even her self-furnished apartments on Coruscant didn’t feel as familiar and comforting as the Star Destroyer’s regulation-maintained corridors, homogenous quarters and uniformly laid-out decks.

It did not take long to freshen herself up after her exercises, merely needing a quick round in the ‘fresher and a fresh shirt and tunic to make herself suitably presentable to journey up to the bridge. While she didn’t really care either way, she was aware enough of the effect appearance made to those under her command to take care with how she presented herself. The more put together and disciplined she appeared personally, the more in control she appeared, and given that she was essentially a teenage human girl in command of the Imperial war-ship belonging to the Emperor’s Right Hand, she wasn’t about to disregard any help she could get for maintaining her authority, no matter how trivial it seemed.

Not that she really seemed to need it…

The knowledge that she was Darth Vader’s Right Hand just as Vader was the Emperor’s was usually more than enough to earn her the deference of just about any Imperial throughout the Empire. And that was without taking into consideration her own earned reputation. She was just as efficient, devoted and even as ruthless at times as her Master—though without the habit of revelling in the act of killing—when it came to achieving her objectives. It earned her a general regard among Imperial forces that belonged to her alone. After all, she couldn’t just float by on her Master’s reputation. And she certainly didn’t. But that was little surprise when considering who had taught her everything she knew.

The fact that very few in the Galaxy knew her beyond her reputation and her shadow-like presence at Vader’s side and fewer still knew her true name, age or even her face didn’t hurt either. The deep, shadowed cowl of her cloak had long since proven to be almost as effective a tool as the lightsaber that hung from her belt or the name the Emperor had given her: the Dark Lady Obscura.

It was as she raised that hood into place over her neatly braided-back hair and began striding toward the door of her personal quarters that her comm chimed, alerting her that the _Devastator_ was preparing to drop out of hyperspace. Unable to help herself, a faint smile curled Athara’s lip as the durasteel flooring beneath her feet rumbled, signalling the ship’s return to real-space. It meant they were approaching the second place Athara was most likely to consider home.

Not that many people in the galaxy would ever consider Mustafar to be particularly ‘homey’. But at the pointed approval of the Emperor, the lava-covered planet was where her Master’s private Fortress was located; his sanctuary, of sorts, away from the bustle and politics of the Imperial Capital. It was a forbidding place that attracted few visitors, and though Athara knew her Master was not fond of the Fortress’ location in the slightest—too much history, she’d come to suspect over the years—she knew he very much appreciated that fact enough to tolerate its location. And it was an opinion Athara shared. In addition to the _Devastator_ and its predecessor before it, the imposing obsidian structure amid the lava rivers of Mustafar was where the Sith apprentice had been raised. It was familiar and was, effectively, hers as much as it was her Master’s. She would even be willing to bet that she knew the Fortress better than Vader himself did, having spent a great deal of time exploring the foreboding corridors and dark, cavernous chambers during her free time and moments stolen away from her lessons when she was a child.

Even before she arrived on the bridge she was able to faintly feel her Master’s presence on the planet below, reaching out with her consciousness to inform him of her return after her latest mission. Not that she was about to ever admit to anyone beyond her Master that she could do as much. That she was capable of doing so at all far outstripped the level of Force-potential the Emperor believed her to possess. And as giving him any reason to believe she was far more powerful than she projected in his presence—and the presence of his myriad spies throughout the Galaxy—would be nothing short of suicide, she fully intended to keep the true depth of her abilities between her Master and herself. As such, the first thing she did upon stepping onto the bridge was to order that her Master be notified of her return. It was an order that was carried out without hesitation, as was her subsequent order to prepare a shuttle for her imminent departure for the planet’s surface.

No matter that it was a trip that had become familiar for its regularity, there was no escaping the tension or the anxious focus that permeated the shuttle as Athara was ferried down to the planet’s surface. Not for the first time she seriously contemplated piloting the craft herself, the pilots’ anxiety about navigating the volatile atmosphere of the volcanic planet only serving to ratchet up her own unease. The powerful storms and gale-force updrafts only compounded the danger the electro-magnetic interference inherent to the dark, naturally hazardous planet created. There was little relief from the cloying strength of the flight crew’s fear even when the Fortress’ planet-side guidance systems and tractor beams kicked in to take over guiding the shuttle to its assigned landing bay.

Athara’s only relief came when the shuttle had safely settled on the partially covered and heavily shielded landing platform. Only then was she able to escape the confines of the small craft.

Only for that relief to falter as, no sooner had she stepped into the sheltered vestibule off the landing pad, a small contingent of officers stood waiting for her.

“Welcome back, My Lady,” one of them offered as, together, the handful of uniformed men nodded or outright bowed in greeting. Behind her the door rumbled shut, blocking off the choking heat and ominous glow that perpetually coloured Mustafar’s landscape. Biting her tongue to hold back a grumble of impatience, she inclined her head fractionally in response, just enough that the gesture translated to the thick fabric of her hood. The officers took it as permission and, as she strode forward, parted before her to fall into step around her.

Commander Waelon, one of the senior Intelligence officers under Vader’s direct command, positioned himself on her right while Lieutenant Adahn, one of the readiness officers that rotated through the minimal planet-side military presence that accompanied Vader to his Fortress, settled just off her left side. The other three that followed fell in discretely behind them.

Knowing very well that they would wait for her to indicate which she wished to hear reports from first, the two officers flanking her said nothing. Holding back an exasperated sigh that they always insisted on briefing her the instant she set foot inside the Fortress, she nevertheless forced herself to be attentive. She was, for the most part, the one they all went to with news and reports, her Master rather preferring his privacy and even outright isolation when holed up on Mustafar. Unless she was off on a mission and not available to serve as an intermediary should anything too pressing arise, the officers usually waited to deal with her directly, trusting in her discretion for deciding what merited Lord Vader’s attention and what was of little consequence. It was the flicker of nervous anxiety that had little to do with her she sensed from Commander Waelon that finally made up her mind. With a tilt of her head that had her cowl dipping in Waelon’s direction, she opted to hear the update from the Intelligence Officer first.

He nearly twitched with nerves at the move. When he was that nervous around her it usually meant he had intelligence that was at least interesting. At most, potentially critical.

Though not usually too critical, else he usually had the sense to go directly to her Master if she wasn’t around. And since he had been waiting for her…

“Commander?” It was enough of a prompt that the grey-clad officer straightened almost imperceptibly before launching into his set of reports.

“A few curious and even concerning events have come to our attention since you were last briefed by my counterpart, Commander Eagan, aboard the _Devastator_. The first: we’ve received reports that there was a prison break at the Labour Camp on Wobani. Though several prisoners seem to have escaped, only one has eluded recapture, a Liana Hallik.” Athara was severely tempted to roll her eyes at the intelligence Waelon decided to lead with. At least, that was until he continued. What he said next made it mildly interesting.

“What is concerning about this is that there are further reports that the breakout was orchestrated by the Rebellion. If Hallik was indeed the target of a rescue, we have yet to discern a motivation. We have people looking into who she is and her potential importance.” Curious. Mulling over the information, Athara ceded to herself that it was something she would consider bringing before her Master. While unlikely anything of serious consequence—no one important ever got sent to Wobani—it was still curious that the Rebellion would devote a portion of their limited resources to breaking out one particular individual from a second-rate labour camp. If nothing else of great importance came to her attention, it could prove an entertaining investigation to pursue; at the very least, tricky or even challenging enough to make it mildly interesting.

And as he continued on through his list of ‘curious events’, as he termed them, it certainly seemed like the most interesting piece of intelligence Waelon had.

Until he hesitated as he was wrapping up his report, his anxiety level spiking in a way that had Athara actually turning to shoot the Commander a pointedly impatient look before returning her gaze to the path ahead of her. The fact that his nerves showed on his face and his hands were clutched tightly before him did little to reassure her.

“What is it, Commander,” she finally bit out, her impatience growing when his hesitation showed little sign of abating. He actually jerked at the implied reprimand to her tone, his steps faltering for an instant before renewing his pace next to her. Athara couldn’t help but frown at the uncertainty and traces of fear she suddenly sensed pouring off him, her irritation gradually turning to unease.

“Jedha City’s been destroyed.” It was so unexpected Athara couldn’t quite contain her shock as she turned to face the Intelligence Officer, stopping so abruptly Lieutenant Adahn had to turn and retreat back to her side and the officers trailing them nearly collided with Athara and the Commander. She knew what was currently orbiting Jedha even if few others did, just as she knew Waelon had some idea by virtue of his position in Imperial Intelligence.

“Explain!” Sensing her agitation, Waelon shuffled nervously before complying, his dark eyes not quite able to look to where he knew her eyes hid beneath her cowl.

“Official reports claim it was a mining accident,” it was then he paused again, and if Athara hadn’t already had her suspicions, his hesitation certainly would have roused them; the Death Star’s weapon was functional. She didn’t need to say a word, the force of her stare enough to urge the officer to continue even if he couldn’t see her face.

He visibly swallowed his nerves before speaking again. “But whispers from our forces coming out of the system suggest the—the new weapon is responsible. The devastation is said to be immense.” Athara didn’t doubt that, her stomach churning uneasily as the Force seemed to flutter with foreboding around her.

“My Lady, there’s one more thing out of Jedha.” If possible, her attention on the officer intensified, nearly causing Waelon to flinch. Thankfully, her attention as all the incentive he needed to continue.

“There has been a security breach, though the severity has yet to be determined. It appears that one of the supply pilots that runs between Jedha and Eadu may have defected.” Athara felt cold, her anger sparking as watched Waelon pale beneath her scrutiny. “And rumour has it that he’s intending to go to the Rebellion with the information.”

“And what information would that be?”

“That the Empire is building a planet-killer.”

Athara’s stomach plummeted.

She needed to inform her Master.


	2. Chapter 2

Though Athara had never felt she had reason to fear her Master, that didn’t mean she wasn’t occasionally anxious to be in his presence. She wasn’t a fool. And bearing the news she had? Anxious was putting it mildly.

The intelligence Waelon had presented her wasn’t potentially critical, it was potentially explosive. The Death Star was the biggest kept secret in the Empire. If word of it got out before the Emperor was ready? Even as ineffectual as it had become, the Senate would not stand for it. That the ranks from the lowest soldier up to Vader, Athara and even Grand Moff Tarkin—at least so far as those who knew of the project, of course—were utterly divided over the project further complicated the whole situation. Tarkin was almost painfully eager in his support of the project, salivating at the prospective opportunity to command the new Imperial Battlestation with its devastating Superweapon. Meanwhile Vader was almost apathetic toward the Death Star. Athara suspected the Battlestation didn’t sit well with the Sith Lord, its potential unsettling to him. It was something that Athara was inclined to agree with. But until recently, she’d honestly paid the project little mind.

The Death Star had been under construction since before she was born, and it was only in the last several years, arguably the last several months, that the weapon it was intended to boast actually seemed viable.

Now that it was on the verge of being fully operational? The only feeling Athara could rightly own to was dread. Everything else was muddled and uncertain, save for the overarching and unmistakable feeling of dread thinking of the Battlestation evoked.

And that dread had nothing to do with the fact that there was a very real threat of the secrecy surrounding the Battlestation and its Superweapon being blown wide open.

No matter her opinion or her Master’s on the issue, the potential leak was still a huge problem for the Empire. Which meant, by extension, it was a huge problem for Athara and her Master. It was enough that Athara was willing to risk entering her Master’s chambers when she knew he was preparing for one of the many medical treatments he regularly underwent to keep his damaged body even marginally functional.

For almost her entire life, Athara had been privy to many of her Master’s secrets and confidences. That she herself could be considered one of those secrets made that inevitable on some level. She was closer to him than anyone alive, seeing a side to him that no one else ever had. But one secret he had never allowed her to witness was the true extent of the damage to his body. She had never seen him without his iconic mask and had only once before seen evidence, no matter how fleeting, of just how mechanized his body was; when she was a child, she had seen one of his cybernetic arms being replaced after it had been irreparably damaged on a mission. It had seemed as simple a process to her Master as changing her tunic was to Athara. It had been utterly baffling to her at the time that he could be so inured to the process.

But as she had grown, she had learned more about what was required to keep him alive. From questions that he had eventually, and sometimes reluctantly, answered to less than approved research on her part into his sealed medical records, she had eventually come to realize that the only reason he was still alive was thanks for the most part to his suit, the Dark Side and sheer force of will.

But even knowing what she did about the state of his body, Vader had still refused to let her see that side of him; the vulnerable, physically ravaged side. It was one of the primary reasons for his visits to Mustafar and why he valued the privacy of the forbidding planet enough to tolerate his Fortress’ location there; the bulk of the specialized medical facilities he required for the periodic treatments necessary to keep his body viable enough for the suit to sustain were located in his Fortress on the lava planet. So she knew as she punched her override code into the entrance keypad for his chambers that she was risking his wrath. It was a risk she was willing to take, or rather, it was something that she was required to do out of necessity.

As she strode into the chamber, nose wrinkling slightly at the lifeless, sterile tang in the air from the heavy-duty ventilation and air-scrubbing system, she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. It took a great deal of effort to keep her sigh of relief to herself as she approached her Master’s Primary Medical Unit—he had a similar black-domed hyperbaric chamber both on the _Devastator_ and on Coruscant—catching sight of her still robed and masked mentor. A flash of angry disappointment and a flicker of unease reached her through the Force as her Master looked up from where one of his army of medical droids was beginning the process of removing his right cybernetic arm—the underlying structures and mechanisms already bared in preparation for removal—even as a second droid was beginning to gather and activate the equipment that would perform the functions of his suit during the procedure. Off to the side, a series of doors whirred shut, each sealing with a faint hiss, but not before Athara caught a glimpse of the large, cocoon-like Bacta Chamber that dominated the immense, cavernous abyss that resided at the heart of the obsidian Fortress; she’d never once seen the inside of the Bacta Chamber.

But the flash of anger faded almost immediately as her Master sensed her disquiet, knowing before she even said a word that she hadn’t entered his chambers without good reason. Lowering her head slightly in deferential greeting, she stepped forward to hand him the Datapad containing the dossier Waelon had put together about the happenings on Jedha, both of the defecting pilot and the total and abrupt destruction of the city.

As he read, the Dark Lord stood slowly, menace and aggravation beginning to bleed from beneath his metal shields. With a step back and to the side, Athara moved out of his way as he waved off the droids with his exposed cybernetic hand and descended from the platform his Medical Unit sat upon.

“Do we know anything else?” When he finally spoke, looking up at her from behind his unreadable mask, his voice seemed to echo in the quiet of the room, the ambient noise seeming to fade at the intent focus of the Sith Lord and his apprentice. Lowering her hood, knowing that, despite being able to read her like a book through the Force, her Master still preferred to see her face when they were alone, Athara shook her head.

“Only what is on there,” she assured him, gesturing absently to the datapad in his hand. “We have no further word on the whereabouts of the pilot beyond rumour that he was still on Jedha. While it is possible that he perished in the destruction of the Holy City, I think it would be unwise to assume as much. At the very least, we cannot be sure that the leak was contained to the city. It may very well have spread beyond Jedha. More than that, it would seem the initial security breach originated on Eadu.” She could feel her Master’s irritation and frustration seething in the face of the intelligence he held in his hand.

“What has Director Krennic done to deal with this situation?” He asked softly, the question seeming almost rhetorical. But Athara could feel her own frustration deepening at the mention of the man overseeing the Death Star.

She had never liked Krennic. He was far too irrational and volatile, his ambition outstripping his admittedly prodigious talent when it came to certain aspects of the task he had been given. But he was not the military leader he envisioned himself to be nor was he the political mind he assumed he was. He was a builder. He was also a manipulator, and Athara had never been fond of manipulators. Especially ones with Krennic’s less than subtle approaches.

“Unclear,” she said in response, “but it seems he has requested an audience with you, Master.” Vader turned to her again, his frustration seeming to heighten as annoyance mingled with his irritation. She imagined that, could she see his face, his brow would be furrowed thoughtfully even as he scowled at the news. She had nearly growled herself when Lieutenant Adahn had informed her of that particular development when she had been waiting for Commander Waelon to gather the intelligence on Jedha for her to bring before Lord Vader. She couldn’t help the trace of a grin as she continued. “It’s a gesture that hints at desperation to me.” Amusement flickered through her Master’s growing temper.

“The only reason Krennic requests audiences is to ask for favour,” her Master tacitly agreed after a moment, his voice laced with disdain. She nodded absently, unable to help but posit about Krennic’s motivations.

“Either he’s intending to ask for our help in plugging up his leaks, which I must admit I doubt given his pride, or he’s hoping for your support on some matter relating to the Death Star. The timing is far too coincidental for it to be about anything else.” A noncommittal sound escaped from Vader’s respirator.

“He’s hoping for my support against Governor Tarkin, I would not doubt.” Athara let out a sigh of understanding as soon as the words left her Master’s mouth. That would not be surprising in the slightest, come to think of it. For all that her Master claimed he had little interest or inclination for politics, he was not blind nor was he oblivious to the ambitions or the political intrigues of the Imperial military and political elite.

Grand Moff Tarkin had been waiting eagerly, if not entirely patiently, to take control of the Death Star the instant the Battlestation was operational, deftly playing the political game to paint himself and himself alone in the best light when it came to the Death Star’s development and construction. And even though she didn’t know Krennic all that well for all that she knew of him, she suspected that the Director bristled under the weight of that knowledge. Now that the alleged test of the weapon did indeed appear to have been successful, it was only a matter of time before Tarkin took over. It was even possible that he already had. Now that her Master had reminded her of that fact, Athara was certain that was what was behind Krennic’s request; either he hoped to prevent Tarkin from wresting control of the Death Star from him…or he was hoping to regain control of the Battlestation after losing it to the slippery Grand Moff.

…Not that supplicating himself before her Master was likely to get him anywhere. Regardless of how little her Master liked Tarkin, he was not about to set himself up against the Grand Moff, especially not for Director Krennic, whom the Dark Lord potentially liked even less. Even if Krennic were to petition Palpatine directly, Athara had to admit she’d be very surprised indeed if the Emperor were to even consider giving the borderline incompetent Director control over the project his favourite Grand Moff had been championing nearly from the beginning.

With an absent gesture Vader held out the Datapad for her to take, which she did automatically, before ascending back up into his Medical Unit to continue preparing for his procedure. After lowering himself back into the throne-like chair, he gestured sharply for the waiting droids to continue their work. Glancing back up to her Master after a reflexive glance down at the Datapad in her hand, Athara stepped forward again, stopping just short of climbing the shallow steps up to the Medical Unit.

“How do you wish to proceed,” she finally prompted when he showed no immediate sign of either providing her with orders or dismissing her. At first he didn’t even seem to react, though she could sense his attention had shifted back to her even as he remained deep in thought. After a long moment he turned back to her, his gaze carrying weight even though it was tempered by the expressionless nature of the mask hiding his features.

“Go to Eadu,” he finally said, seeming to relax back into his seat even though Athara could still pick up on the tension in his shoulders. “Find the source of the leak and deal with it. If Krennic has any sense whatsoever, he will also be en route to the facility. You will inform him that his request to meet with me has been granted and you will ensure that he comes before me as soon as you are finished on Eadu.” It took some effort to keep her dismay at Krennic’s request being accommodated to herself—something the flicker of silent rebuke through the Force from her Master told her she hadn’t quite succeeded in—but she nevertheless nodded her understanding.

“Yes, Master.”

And with a sharp turn, she was descending from the edge of the Medical Unit and exiting her Master’s private chambers.


	3. Chapter 3

Usually Athara retreated to her private chambers to pass the time while the _Devastator_ hurtled through hyperspace.

This time, though, not only was she not aboard her Master’s Star Destroyer, but her mind was far too full and far too focused on what waited for her on Eadu. She could only devote so much time to reading over the limited information that she’d been able to access about the research installation they were heading for and the personnel that inhabited it both on the now all but ignored files—their contents pulled up from the datachip which was currently plugged into the console closest to her right elbow—and running over them in her head. So she simply waited out the balance of the trip in the Co-pilot’s seat, the quiet chatter of her handful of troopers in the main cabin behind her fading into the background as she sank into her thoughts.

She had never visited the research and development facilities located on Eadu. She’d never even set foot on the planet before. Indeed, it was only in the last couple of weeks that she’d learned there was a research facility there at all. The planet was owned by the Tarkin Initiative, and the secretive facility located there had been founded by Krennic for the sole purpose of housing the laboratories devoted to developing kyber crystal technology for use in the Death Star’s superlaser. So its existence was arguably a bigger kept secret than even the Battlestation.

And that was saying something.

Though not officially privy to the Emperor’s secret project, she’d known of the Death Star to some degree for most of her life. And now, because of her close relationship with Vader and the fact that she’d known a great deal about it already, despite not being directly involved with the project in any capacity. She was one of the select few in the Galaxy that had intimate knowledge of the Death Star having finally being officially briefed on the project several months before. It was a good bet, really, that she might even know more about the Death Star than the scientists she was heading to Eadu to investigate thanks to her mandatory study of the Battlestation’s plans and the extensive, in-depth briefings that followed; considering the scientists were likely sequestered and a great deal of information about the project compartmentalized for security purposes, it was an easy bet to make.

And she’d never even set foot on it.

Not that she suspected many of them had either…

Regardless of that fact, Athara still knew the Death Star fairly well. She had a good grasp of its layout, its design and its capabilities thanks to her required study of its plans when she had been officially informed of the project. It had been considered prudent to ensure many of the highest-ranking members of the Empire to be at least familiar with it thanks to the Emperor’s intention for it to become a cornerstone of the Imperial Military Machine. Its intended destiny had become abundantly clear to Athara when she’d been informed during the briefings—more than once, though the conclusion hadn’t been a hard one to make—that the Battlestation conformed with the rather standardized and uniform layouts favoured on both Star Destroyers and, to a smaller extent, most Imperial bases. So if she ever were to find herself on the Battlestation, she imagined she’d be able to make her way around without too much trouble or even that much of a learning curve.

Because of those briefings, she also knew precisely what the Death Star was intended to be capable of. In fact, it was a facet of the Battlestation’s purpose she couldn’t quite wrap her head around; the ability to destroy a planet? To what end? She personally didn’t see the gain for the Empire in creating a planet-killer. Especially when said planet-killer had taken decades to develop and construct and had been regularly plagued by delays and setbacks, some almost crippling; like the rumours that had abounded several years previous that there had been a chance the Battlestation would be incapable of jumping to hyperspace because of its immense size. The Superlaser alone had taken nearly two decades of failures on its own to become a reality. From what she had pieced together, the only reason the project had survived long enough to reach completion was mostly thanks to Tarkin’s interest in the colossal Battlestation; without his championing of the project, Athara suspected even the Emperor might very well have allowed the Death Star to die in secrecy.

That then begged the next question of whether or not it was truly functional. She knew it had destroyed Jedha City, but had that been the intention? The intelligence they’d gotten hadn’t been clear on that point. Had whoever given that order really intended to destroy just the Holy City or had they really intended to see if the Death Star’s capabilities matched the desired potential. She was finding herself becoming more and more morbidly curious to see the remains of the Holy City herself, in person, to see the damage the Death Star’s new weapon had inflicted for herself. She wondered what it would feel like to see the ruins and rubble—or crater, most likely—of the city that had held the last remaining vestiges of the Age of Jedi with the memory of the living, breathing city fresh in her mind.

She’d visited the city a handful of months previous, not long after her series of official briefings on the project. The assignment had been to not only see the Death Star in person for the first time, but to ‘motivate’ Krennic to keep the city under better control while construction on the Death Star went through its final stages in preparation for delivery of the Superlaser’s focusing dish. Krennic had been rather irate and flustered that an attempted attack by Saw Gerrera’s band of rebels on the convoy she’d been accompanying through the city during her assessment had been an abject failure thanks to her presence; Krennic’s troops, meanwhile, had been dropping like flies against the rebel fanatics. The difference her presence alone made would have been almost amusing had it not demonstrated to her just how incompetent the Director was as a military commander.

She’d wanted to set off to root out Gerrera’s brash and bombastic radicals then and there, only to be denied the leave to do so by her Master; she’d had other more pressing missions at the time in need of her specific skillset, pressing enough that even her intended visit to the Battlestation itself had been cancelled. That development had led to her being assured by Krennic that his troops would double their efforts to end the threat Gerrera’s militants posed.

That incident had been the final straw for her after a long list of mishandling and misconduct on the Director’s part. She’d been utterly convinced that Krennic was no longer deserving of his post in the slightest. But her recommendations to that effect had also been summarily dismissed. Construction had been almost complete after all, and the weapon’s final components due for installation any time, she’d been told; meaning it would have be far most disruptive to replace Krennic than to keep him at that stage and the Emperor didn’t want any more delays. As she’d departed the moon—her first and so far only visit to Jedha, though she had yet to board the monstrosity orbiting it—she hadn’t been able to help but think bitterly that Krennic was in over his head.

She honestly couldn’t believe he had managed to stay in command for so long; a few successes—and his admitted expertise in some areas like architectural engineering and logistics—in her mind, was not enough to outweigh his sometimes significant lapses in judgment or his worryingly frequent displays of incompetence in other areas. But that was a symptom of having friends in high places and some measure of skill at wheedling his way out of tight spots, she supposed. Though, it also probably hadn’t helped that Athara hadn’t appreciated that her assessment about Krennic’s ineptitude and near ambivalence toward happenings on the moon’s surface had been virtually ignored.

Thinking back on that visit inevitably led her thoughts back to the alleged destruction of the Holy City:

Had Jedha City been proof of a success or a failure?

Perhaps the scientists on Jedha would have some answers on that front as well. After all, it seemed inconceivable that they wouldn’t have been kept appraised of any tests of the final superlaser, no matter how sequestered Krennic and the Tarkin Initiative had kept them. As she thought on it, she realized it was also an avenue of questioning she could possibly use in her mission to ascertain just what sort of security breach the Empire was facing.

Because of first her reading on the topic and then her preoccupation with what awaited her on what she’d been informed was a very rainy and virtually inhospitable mountainous planet, Athara hadn’t moved from her place in the cockpit since shortly after she’d given the order to depart Mustafar. She just sat where she’d settled herself once the shuttle had jumped to hyperspace, having ordered the pilot and copilot out so she could have the space to herself. Staring sightlessly out the main viewports to the whorl of hyperspace as they barrelled toward Eadu, she remained that way in as close to solitude as was realistic in the confined space of the shuttle until the console began to beep sedately, indicating they were approaching their destination.

Mentally shaking her thoughts back to the present as she belatedly registered the warning, she stood, absently straightening her cloak and her tunic and gathering up her datachip before striding back out into the main passenger compartment. Immediately her troopers ceased all conversation, straightening as they looked to her. With a brief glance, the pilots were reclaiming the cockpit and, after a moment, the shuttle dropped back into realspace, the hum of the sublight engines replacing the distinct drone of the hyperspace drives.

Though she debated taking the seat next to the door of the cockpit only just vacated by the pilot, Athara quickly realized she was far too impatient to sit back down. As she ducked back into the cockpit to stand behind the pilots, out before them Eadu was growing steadily larger, filling the viewscreen until all the pilots and Athara could see was first dense cloud cover and then heavy rain. She barely paid the copilot any attention as he passed along code clearances and their purpose and received directions and instructions from the facility. Instead she was reaching out with the Force to see if there was anything useful to glean about the planet and, as they drew in to land in one of the landing bays near the heart of the facility.

What she sensed was hardly surprising. There was little chance that the officers manning the installation’s comm station hadn’t passed along just who was on the incoming shuttle to anyone and everyone they could. Really, she’d have been very surprised if they hadn’t almost the instant the copilot had announced through the comm just whose shuttle was on approach. Inspections were common for such facilities, but inspections by someone such as herself? Just as a visit from her Master or—to a lesser extent, since he covered successes too—Grand Moff Tarkin to one of the hundreds of Imperial Installations across the Galaxy often came on the heels of some sort of misstep, a visit from her had come to herald much the same thing in the last several years. So naturally it was interpreted that her sudden and unexpected arrival did not bode well for the facility. And as word of her arrival spread throughout the installation, fear and anxious anticipation spread with it.

She did have to admit, though, the response was rather quick and obviously determined about making a good impression on her. No sooner was her shuttle maneuvering into the landing bay specifically reserved for official visits and high-ranking visitors, then she noticed that there was already a rather formal-looking welcoming committee waiting patiently for her, her rank evidently demanding that they endure getting soaked by the downpour coming in through the open bay doors above them or risk demonstrating an unacceptable measure of disrespect. Though she would have understood and likely even forgiven them waiting just inside the base for the bay doors to close before coming out to greet her, it nevertheless satisfied her that she was respected—or more likely feared—enough that they weren’t willing to risk her displeasure. Athara was further amused and faintly impressed that they were all keeping their reservations and apprehensions relatively well hidden, their anxieties only revealed to Athara thanks to her Force-sensitivity.

She did, however, find it a little strange when she sensed that not one of the welcoming party seemed to have any recognizable, or at least detectable idea what her visit was about. That was indeed curious, she mused as she waited to disembark until the bay doors overhead had groaned closed, shielding them from the elements. With a nod from her, one of her handful of troopers hit the control for the boarding ramp and, after they had all filed out to take up their positions, Athara followed. Apparently seeing her descending from the boarding ramp with her path lined on either side by two lines of starkly intimidating Stormtroopers was enough to have the gathered officers and scientists’ nerves spiking, something that nearly made Athara grin.

Impressively, though, the scientist the others in the welcoming party were gathered around stepped forward without a trace of his fear to be seen on his features, his eyes sharp as they took in her and her escort. With a small bow, his hands clasped loosely in respect before him, he looked to Athara with a guarded but still somewhat welcoming expression on his face. And as she reached out with the Force, she was mildly surprised to find his innate mental defenses stronger and his thoughts more guarded than she anticipated; evidence of a particularly strong will. It was also somewhat unexpected in a scientist. Strong will or not, in Athara’s experience scientists tended to guard their minds less proficiently than military personnel or politicians. Something about the different sorts of discipline required by each type of profession for their reactions and emotions and, by extension, their minds. Naturally, it left her mildly intrigued.

“My Lady Obscura, it is a pleasure,” he began, his accent taking a moment to adjust to, though it helped her place who he was thanks to the personnel files she’d looked over during the early part of the hyperspace journey. “Forgive our surprise and lack of appropriate preparation, but we were not expecting—”

“As that is generally the nature of surprise visits, Supervisor Erso, such surprise is hardly unexpected,” she interrupted with a vague, nearly bored gesture of dismissal. She was not interested in pleasantries—a trait she had picked up from her Master, no doubt—and was far more interested in getting to the point of her visit. Behind her, she could hear her troopers unobtrusively falling in around her, the nervous glances from the other officers and scientists around Galen Erso confirming as much. Erso, however, didn’t bat an eye, keeping his attention on her save for the smallest of glances past her shoulder to her Stormtroopers. With a smile that, while not appearing forced, still struck Athara as such, the research supervisor nodded in acknowledgement of Athara’s comment before stepping to the side and gesturing politely back toward the entrance to the facility.

“If you’ll allow me, My Lady,” he said respectfully as Athara gave her own nod in acknowledgement of his offer to lead the way, “we have a conference room set aside for such occasions—” Again Athara cut him off.

“Have your lead scientists gathered. I have reason to speak with them.” She glanced over to him when he hesitated to immediately agree to her request, even though he fully recognized that it was more of an order. There was a nervous anxiety simmering within the man, one that she couldn’t entirely read. She hadn't noticed it at first, but the longer Athara was in his presence, the more she was picking up on it. It left her feeling wary. This one definitely required more observation, she decided privately. Besides, it was logical to start with the lead scientists of the facility. For all that the installation was effectively secluded from the rest of the Galaxy, they were the ones most likely to have the access, clearance, means and the potential motive to initiate the breach the missing pilot had carried out. And Galen Erso was the head of the facility’s impressive collection of elite scientists. That meant that he was a resource for both information and insight on his subordinates in addition to being a potential suspect in his own right.

Athara had only had time to glance through the personnel files of the facility’s lead scientists, so she didn’t know quite as much as she would have liked about them or their backgrounds. More than that, the files were almost solely focused on listing qualifications and achievements for each lead scientist. They were rather underwhelming when it came to details about what they were working on or even their general—read, personal—backgrounds beyond homeplanets, dates of birth, and educational and professional milestones. There hadn’t even been holos of the scientists themselves, hence her need to identify Erso based on his distinctively Grangeian accent.

Thankfully she had learned to pick up on details like that from an early age…

But one thing she did remember clearly was that Erso had been placed at this facility by Krennic personally…and that gave him an inordinate amount of power at the installation and a significant amount of influence over the Death Star Project in general. That, coupled with his guarded reactions, curiously strong will and the subtle, unsettled feeling through the Force Athara was getting around him, meant that she resolved rather quickly that he was one to keep an eye on. Not that she’d be disregarding the other lead scientists, the subordinate scientists or even the officers and support personnel stationed at the facility should her investigation call for it. The lead scientists—Supervisor Erso included—being the most likely culprits in colluding with the missing pilot, were merely the most logical place to start. Not that Athara was expecting to have to dig into the facility’s personnel beyond them.

No. Thanks to her prior—though limited—understanding of the installation’s inner workings, her perusal of the available files on the facility during her journey to Eadu and the quick briefing Erso was currently giving her as he led her deeper into the installation, she very much doubted that anyone beyond the elite group of scientists was responsible for the breach.

It wasn’t long before Erso was showing her into the conference room he’d mentioned, informing her after pausing to receive a message from one of his subordinates that the six other lead scientists had been notified of her instructions and were on their way.

Only for a second subordinate—a young communications Lieutenant this time, judging by his insignia and uniform—to appear moments later, the young man’s eyes wide and nervous as he relayed his message. He didn’t quite seem to know whether to deliver it to her or Erso before finally directing his address to his regular superior.

“Si—My Lady, Sir, there’s another shuttle on approach. It’s Director Krennic, Sir.” Though she was already expecting that the Director would make his way to the facility, presumably to investigate the breach as she was, Athara was nevertheless a little impressed that Krennic was so prompt in him response. Even so, it was Erso that she watched as the news was delivered, taking in the flicker of worry and distaste in his eyes and the faint way he tensed at the update. He was just getting more and more interesting, this man.

“Where has his shuttle been directed to land,” Erso finally asked calmly, sparing a brief glance in Athara’s direction. It was undoubtedly petty, but Athara was suddenly rather satisfied that the sole covered landing bay—the one reserved for important visitors—was already occupied thanks to her own shuttle. The young comm officer glanced nervously to Athara himself before answering.

“The main landing platform, Sir,” he finally said in a hesitant voice that belied the way he’d straightened determinedly. Athara fought back a smirk; even better. Erso swallowed nervously before turning back to Athara.

“I’m afraid you must excuse me, My Lady. My presence is required elsewhere for a few moments.”

“Nonsense,” Athara replied immediately, smirking internally at the wary surprise that flickered across Erso’s face at her accommodating tone and the unease that appeared when she continued, “We should all be there to greet Director Krennic. You, me and your lead scientists. After all,” Erso faltered, his unease deepening further at the emerging sharpness in Athara’s voice, “I rather suspect he’s here for the same reason I am.”

Quickly mastering his reaction, Erso nodded after a moment before politely gesturing again for the Sith apprentice to follow him.


	4. Chapter 4

Supervisor Erso led them efficiently through the maze of corridors and labs to the main landing platform, which turned out to be little more than a small loading platform that extended out beyond the sheer rock-face that housed the facility.

The Eadu Research Facility was not a large installation, so it wasn’t outfitted with dozens of landing bays or platforms as some of the larger ones were. If Athara remembered correctly from her reading, on top of the main Shuttle Depot down below, it had two visitor landing bays—including the single covered one Athara’s shuttle was in—above the cliffs housing the main facility; both were occupied, it would seem. It also had three TIE-fighter hangars positioned equidistant around the perimeter of the facility that held half-a-dozen fighters and their crews apiece.

And finally, there was the main landing platform; the platform Krennic’s shuttle had been directed to.

As Athara waited near Erso while he spoke quietly to his lead scientists just outside the main entry into the facility, she was thankful for the shadow cast by her cowl that hid her abruptly smirking features. When she’d first stepped outside several moments before, she’d actually had to hold in a laugh when she’d seen precisely where Krennic’s shuttle was now maneuvering in to land. The platform was little more than a loading dock; a smaller, more direct alternative to the larger Shuttle Depot that allowed for cargo—more specifically kyber crystals—to be delivered straight into the facility’s main labs.

The urge to laugh got so bad she actually had to bite her tongue as the Director disembarked out into the pouring rain followed by a handful of officers. His Death Troopers were already lining the boarding ramp much as Athara’s own troopers had done when she’d arrived, the wet-gleam of their armour in the light from the shuttle and the facility the only thing keeping them from melting into the night-like gloom of Eadu’s thick cloud cover. She’d always found his choice of troopers for his protection detail to be a rather presumptuous move on his part; what was wrong with regular Stormtroopers? They were more than sufficient and their use by everyone—from Vader and Athara, all the way down the leadership ranks—enforced the vision of unity the Empire looked to convey. Even Tarkin with his own ego was satisfied with the standard white-clad troopers of his protection detail.

But Krennic didn’t immediately head for the cover of the facility’s interior, instead stopping just beyond the edge of the shuttle’s ramp in a fit of what Athara suspected was self-importance, requiring them to come to him.

It was a nearly desperate attempt at a power play, unconscious or otherwise, if she ever saw one. And she had to admit that she very much suspected he was doing it because he’d either heard it was her shuttle occupying the covered landing bay or he’d caught sight of her standing with her own detail of troopers just under the wide overhang protecting the entry into the facility. Perhaps it was both; she rather doubted it was anything else. The flicker of uncomfortable indignation she’d sensed in him as he’d spotted her next to Erso had made that perfectly clear.

Whatever his reasoning, there was no love lost between her and Krennic after their encounters over Jedha, that was for sure. But Athara was willing to go along with his less-than-subtle manoeuvrings for the time being. After all, now that he was here, she was curious to see how he intended to handle the security breach.

Besides, seeing Krennic choosing to look like a drowned mooka beneath the near torrential downpour simply out of a desire to spite her and make himself feel superior was entirely too entertaining…she really was enjoying his fit of pride far too much.

With a glance at Supervisor Erso once Krennic had made his expectations clear, Athara stepped out into the rain, her thick, hooded cloak keeping her far drier than Krennic’s less functional cape was likely keeping him. Next to her, Erso was soaked within seconds, though he gave no indication of discomfiture from the rain as they approached Krennic.

“Excellent news, Galen,” the white-clad Director said as the Sith apprentice and the scientist came to a halt before him. Though still feeling traces of her earlier amusement, Athara was unable to help the irritation beginning to grow in her as Krennic blatantly ignored her presence next to Erso. He was really starting to push it already. The Grangeian Supervisor next to her spared Athara an unreadable glance before returning his attention to the almost disingenuously enthusiastic Director. “The Battlestation is complete. You must be very proud,” Krennic continued with a wide smile. Erso’s responding expression was far more reserved, his face curiously neutral, Athara noticed with interest. It would seem the supervising scientist was not so enamored with the Death Star as one might have expected given his prominent role in its development.

“As proud as I can be, Krennic,” he answered sedately, the careful evasiveness of his response not lost on Athara even if Krennic appeared not to have noticed…though Athara supposed he could be ignoring Erso’s rather evident lack of pride. Krennic nodded, barely seeming to have registered Erso’s response at all and pointedly not looking in Athara’s direction. It was almost as though by pretending he didn’t see her she would just go away. _As if_ , she couldn’t help but think as her nose wrinkled with annoyed exasperation. But she held her tongue, instead biding her time to respond to his disrespect all while easily sensing how her lack of reaction was unsettling the Director: his growing unease almost made up for his rudeness.

“Gather your engineers. I have an announcement,” Krennic said almost immediately and with a fractionally less excited tone, his vague gesture visually loud in compensation as he nodded toward the six scientists gathered back near the facility’s entrance. Without so much as a nod of acknowledgement Erso turned to rejoin and gather his fellow scientists, leaving the Director—who was trying very hard not to look at Athara—alone in the presence of the Sith apprentice…whom he’d rather obviously and deliberately been snubbing.

As the rain swallowed the sound of Erso’s efficient footsteps, Athara began moving toward Krennic with slow, deliberate steps of her own. Krennic tensed, his gaze pointedly following Erso as she paused beside him, keeping her gaze just as pointedly on the boarding ramp of his shuttle, ignoring the line of suddenly nervous looking officers standing behind the Director.

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear, Director Krennic, that My Master has agreed to your request for an audience,” she said with a low, carefully impersonal tone. She had absolutely no interest in denying the gratification—enjoyment, really—at sensing the sudden wave of alarm and anxiety that washed through the Director at the words only he had heard. It was obvious that, despite the being the one to request the meeting, a part of Krennic had been hoping the request would be denied. Not that Athara was surprised. She might not be afraid of Darth Vader, but anyone else who wasn’t her would be a fool not to be. And no matter that Krennic was indeed a fool, he wasn’t that much of one. Vader’s reputation was well known, as was his punishment for those who disappointed him or failed in their duties.

She smirked to herself as she turned, settling herself directly to Krennic’s right and letting the tense silence between them hang for a moment before continuing. “And I am sure Lord Vader will be most interested in hearing how respectful you’ve been to his Right Hand.” There was no hiding the traces of sarcasm threading through her tone. Nor was there any restraining the smug grin that curled her lips as Krennic finally turned to her, spluttering rather inelegantly as he raced to find an appropriate response.

“A great deal rests, I think, on how you handle the security breach from _your_ compound, by one of _your_ scientists,” she cut him off pointedly, her voice quiet but hard as her hood tilted subtly in his direction even as Erso approached with the six lead scientists in tow. Krennic’s unease mingled with insulted outrage not only at her words but at how Athara’s timing in conveying her warning kept him from responding with whatever indignant assurance had invariably been poised on his tongue. But he was forced to rein in his reaction, though she could still hear his irritation with her in his cutting tone as the scientists lined up before them.

“Is that all of them?” the Director questioned almost rhetorically, causing Erso to pause, giving his affirmative answer to Krennic’s question, before striding past Athara to stand with the officers arrayed behind her and Krennic. As Erso took his place, the Director stood in silence for a moment to regain the composure Athara had worn away with her comments, his gaze heavy and assessing as he looked to each scientist. Though her own gaze took in each of the six scientists before her just as his did, Athara’s attention was split between them, Erso and Krennic, attentive to both Erso and the Director’s reactions, as well as the scientists’ before her. To their credit, not one of the six men flinched under the combined scrutiny of her and Krennic.

“Gentlemen,” Krennic finally said, continuing to survey the scientists gravely, “One of you betrayed the Empire. One of you has conspired, with a pilot, to send messages to the Rebellion.” The scientists shifted uneasily at the pronouncement, and Athara noticed with a frown that not only didn’t she see any trace of guilt or dread in any one of them, she didn’t sense it either; the scientists exhibited only surprise and bewildered apprehension. She did, however, sense Erso shift uneasily behind her. Slowly, true suspicion began to grow in the back of her mind.

Krennic, meanwhile, was oblivious to the cues Athara was picking up on, Force-ability or not. “And I urge that traitor to step forward,” the Director concluded with a demanding gesture.

When not one of the scientists moved, Krennic motioned his Death Troopers forward with a subtle gesture to stand at the ready facing the scientists, each one an awful, menacing shadow emerging from the rain. Athara nearly groaned, fighting to keep herself from reacting outwardly in disappointment. She probably should have suspected that he’d be overly dramatic and heavy-handed in his management of the situation. But she was already resolved to stand back and see how he made out. His blunt strategy could potentially pay off. After all, Her Master’s approach to such situations was often relatively similar: direct, intimidating, threatening…though Vader had the Force to help him discern whether or not his strategy was working, where Krennic most certainly did not.

After another tension-filled moment, Krennic glanced meaningfully at the troopers on either side of them. “Very well,” he conceded irritably before turning to glance at Athara for an instant, as though making sure she was paying attention, “I’ll consider it a group effort, then.” It took a great deal of willpower for Athara to keep herself from allowing her hand to smack to her face in frustration. The reaction she had felt from Erso as Krennic had looked back to him after uttering his threat was too strong not to have been visible even to a non-Force-user. She was now more convinced than ever as the Director called out “Ready!” that Krennic was wilfully oblivious. Before them, true panic was setting in quickly in the scientists, nearly identical expressions of terror springing to each of their aged faces. “Aim!”

Though looking straight ahead to the scientists, Athara’s attention was wholly on Erso now. There was no mistaking his feelings of panic anymore as he wrestled with his conscience. The Death Troopers’ blasters rose, the spotlights making the rain before them glimmer and glint like shards of glass.

But right as “Fire!” was shouting out of Krennic’s mouth, Erso was frantically leaping forward, all but diving in front of his fellow scientists with equally desperate and nearly unintelligible shouts to stop.

“No! Don’t, Krennic, stop! It was me!” Athara couldn’t help the small noise of disbelief that Krennic’s approach had actually managed to work. But then, she ceded, had Erso been any less noble, there was a good chance that the Director’s method would have seen his best scientists executed and Erso’s betrayal left for her to reveal.

She was genuinely surprised, though, with how minimal Krennic’s reaction to Erso’s confession was: he wasn’t surprised at all, she realized with a jolt. Had there actually been a measure of reason behind Krennic not appearing to count Erso among the others as the potential traitor? Had the Director been suspicious of his long-time colleague and supposed friend from the beginning? The more she thought on it, the more she had to wonder. Especially when she glanced to the nearest Death Trooper; though appearing ready to fire, his finger wasn’t even laying properly across the trigger. It was the she realized it had all been part of a plan, a bluff even…of sorts. Perhaps there was some truth to the talk of Krennic’s adept manipulative side.

Perhaps Krennic deserved a bit more credit that Athara had given him…but just a bit.

It quite wasn’t over yet, though. Even if she couldn’t quite read him as well as she’d thought she could, Athara could sense as much from the Director as easily as she could sense Erso’s guilt and fear.

“It was me,” Erso continued, his voice lowering from its frantic shout to an almost remorseful tone…almost. Remorseful at being found out perhaps, but not for what he had done, she suspected. “They had nothing to do with it,” he said, his voice unapologetically pleading as he stood protectively before the six trembling men. “Spare them.” Krennic considered Erso for a moment before gesturing with a nod for Galen to come toward him, stepping away from Athara’s side to meet his old colleague partway, seemingly willing to give the scientists the reprieve Erso was asking for. But there was no hiding his intentions from Athara.

She’d hoped he wouldn’t be so vindictive, so foolish.

But then, it was Krennic.

And there she’d been on the verge of, perhaps, re-evaluating her opinion of him.

Even as he gave the order, Athara couldn’t help but feel the action was reckless and ill-conceived on Krennic’s part. Sure, it was an apt message, but for whom? Even if Krennic wanted to spread word of the executions as a demonstration of what happened when the Empire was betrayed, the murder of innocent scientists—scientists he couldn’t afford to kill, on top of it—was not going to help that message, not even if their deaths were meant as a message to the traitor.

As the last scientist slumped dead to the landing pad, the Trooper’s blasterfire ceasing, Krennic backhanded Erso viciously. The blow, combined with the heavy remorse and despair the Grangeian scientist was feeling, sent the man falling heavily to his knees. It was a reaction followed shortly after by Krennic crouching down next to him.

“How do I know the weapon is complete? Let me share with you some details.” Though she suspected his words were meant for Erso and Erso alone, Krennic was speaking just loudly enough that, if she focused, Athara could mostly hear him over the downpour, which only seemed to have gotten heavier in the last several moments. And given what he was saying, she was very interested in hearing it. So much so that she found herself edging closer to the two kneeling men.

Enough so that she brushed aside the curious disturbance in the Force that tried to draw her attention to the far edge of the landing platform, her interest in hearing what Krennic was suddenly saying too softly for her to hear feeling far more pressing. Angry frustration surged through her that Krennic was revealing the answers to her questions on the viability of the Death Star’s weapon out of her hearing range, waking the Dark Side where it was lying in wait in the back of her mind. Though it heightened her senses as the Force flooded to her inadvertent call, it was too late, and not just to hear what the Director had said to Erso.

It sharpened her senses just enough that she sensed the incoming Rebellion fighters mere seconds before the first alarm began to sound.

But even as she turned to catch sight of the fighters, they opened fire.


	5. Chapter 5

It was all instinct. Pure instinct. Even as Athara’s eyes widened at the blasterbolt speeding toward her, her lightsaber was in her hand, igniting in a wash of scarlet light just as the crimson bolt crashed into it.

Pain exploded up her arm from the force of the blast colliding with her blade, a cry tearing from her throat. Instantly her other hand was snapping up to clutch at her now throbbing wrist as she grimaced at the pain. Pain…and rage.

Around her blasts were tearing up the landing platform, sending crates and Stormtroopers—some of her own escort included, she couldn’t help but notice angrily—flying into the abyss below. The explosions were blinding, leaving spots dancing before her eyes that she desperately tried to blink away. She couldn’t afford to be blinded. She needed to be able to see, to focus.

If she couldn’t focus, she couldn’t protect herself.

And she could die just as easily as a trooper could.

That realization sent a skitter of fear across her skin. But fear she could harness just as easily as she could anger. So she harnessed it as she’d been taught.

Shouts echoed across the platform: her troopers shouting for her, other troopers shouting for their commanding officers and officers shouting for their subordinates. Even Krennic was adding his voice to the chaos, bellowing out orders to return fire, to mobilize the base. With a snarl, Athara was shouting out her own commands, the hand not holding her lightsaber lashing out with a demanding gesture as she turned to the facility commander and the squadron commander of her handful of troopers as they raced to her side.

“Mobilize the fighters now! I want them in the air immediately,” she snapped out, dimly hearing Krennic similarly calling out to ‘get our fighters in the air now.’ But the facility commander’s attention and his grimly panicked eyes were on her alone and in an instant he was shouting into his personal comm. It gave her a dark sort of pleasure that, in a moment of crisis, as the facility was being attacked, the Commander had come to her for orders instead of the man who was normally responsible for the installation.

It was a flash of pleasure that fizzled out almost as soon as it had appeared. There was no time for it. As she turned back to look out into the driving rain, eyes scanning the sky for the inevitable next wave of fighters, her attention was caught by Krennic still shouting determinedly, striding across the platform in her direction even as Athara spotted the approaching lights that signaled the incoming fighters she’d anticipated.

Her lip curling in a harsh scowl, her hand lashed out, fingers fisting in the soaked fabric of his cape, pulling him harshly around to face her furious, albeit hidden features.

“This is on you, Krennic,” she snarled, letting go of him with a shove. The Director staggered, backing away with a mix of fear and outrage on his face. But the outrage bled from him in an instant to leave only terror as the tip of Athara’s lightsaber was suddenly leveled in his direction, sizzling in the drenching rain even as it held steady mere inches from his throat. “This is _all_ on you.”

Barely a heartbeat later, a second wave of Rebel fighters were upon them. Only this time, instead of strafing the platform as the first had done, this attack group all aimed with deliberation for the base of the landing platform and the entry back into the facility.

The explosion billowed up from where the platform grew out of the cliff-face, the entire structure shuddering from the blast as roaring gouts of flame and debris lit up the night, turning the drenching rain to steam before it even got close. Beside her, Krennic threw up his hands to shield himself from the scalding heat even as Athara turned her shoulder to the blast, both of them nearly losing their footing as the structure quaked beneath them, groaning loudly under the strain and abuse.

For a split-second, Athara was afraid the platform was about to crumble into the abyss below. Somehow the structure held, and miraculously the explosion had fallen just short of the main entry, leaving it—for the most part—and the main structure of the facility’s entrance as well as that of the landing platform intact. Around them personnel, military and science alike, were scrambling to evacuate the platform. Off in the distance, Athara was sure she could hear the concussive blasts signalling that the fighters had begun bombing the facility itself as well.

Turning, she took stock of the situation. It was a deceptive moment of calm, the fighter’s attack seeming to ease in anticipation of the next wave. Krennic was retreating back to his shuttle along with his handful of officers and remaining Death Troopers, the sound of the engines spooling up just barely audible over the rain and the chaos wrought by the Rebel fighters. Not far from her, Erso had regained his feet and seemed to be debating making a run for the facility or being herded onto the shuttle…at least, he was until he spotted her standing between him and the facility doors, straightening with resolve as he felt her gaze on him. A flicker of uneasy surprise went through her at that. He was expecting to die in that moment; Imperial Justice executed by her blade, she realized with a jolt. Blinking with a sudden wave of uncertainty, Athara hesitated only an instant before throwing him a sharp gesture to get on the shuttle and snapping at one of Krennic’s nearby troopers to ensure he boarded: she would let Krennic—or potentially her Master—decide what was to be done with him once he'd been properly questioned. She had other concerns at the present.

Even as the Supervisor warily edged back toward the shuttle, a Death Trooper stepping forward to herd him on, her attention was hijacked by one of her own Stormtroopers nearly colliding with her as he managed to reach her side. Those that remained of her escort were either making their way back into the facility or edging toward Krennic’s shuttle themselves, waiting on her orders.

Somehow, Athara very much doubted she would make it back to her own shuttle if the Rebels were bombing the facility itself as she suspected. It didn’t take much to make up her mind. Her lightsaber went quiet as she turned for Krennic’s shuttle, handing out orders for the trooper beside her to relay to his fellows as she hooked the weapon safely back onto her belt.

Only to stop mid-sentence as a shout rang out across the platform, almost impossibly clear despite the rain and the shouts and the rumble and blast of the Rebel attack.

“Father!”

Athara wasn’t the only one to spin to face the young woman who belonged to the desperate voice. Behind her she could feel a curiously warm mix of shock and disbelief and hope surging through Galen Erso while confusion followed quickly by furious realization bubbled up in Krennic. Turning again, Athara’s attention was immediately on the two men, far more interested in their puzzling reactions than the sudden appearance of the woman—a Rebel, Athara dimly suspected. The expression on Erso’s face perfectly matched what she sensed growing in him as the scientist reflexively stepped toward the young woman.

His daughter, Athara abruptly realized as a wave of lingering heartbreak rose up in the man only to be swept away by the resurgence of disbelief and hope she had felt initially—and love; the incredible surge of love she sensed pouring from him was nearly overpowering in its potency.

Krennic, on the other hand, was already raising his blaster as a vengeful, determined sneer twisted across his features.

But a flicker in the Force and a gleam caught out of the corner of her eye had a wave of panic bursting through Athara’s chest, a cry of warning instinctively ripping from her throat.

“Get down!”

It was the only reaction she had time for as the charge careening toward the landing platform impacted with an explosion that sent everyone within a dozen yards flying. Everyone.

Including Athara.

She couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds, but as Athara regained her senses, it was abruptly clear the battle was still in full swing. But they were no longer so exposed. As she blinked heavily while her eyes readjusted, she spied a pair of TIE fighters darting overhead and she could faintly feel the low reverberation the facility’s ion cannons produced with every discharge deep in her chest. Everything sounded muffled, and she absently realized it was because the explosion had likely left her temporarily deafened. All too soon, though, her hearing began to return, the sounds of the battle driving with acute agony into her abused skull. Thankfully, the cool touch of the rain falling on her exposed face did offer some measure of relief.

With a groan that shuddered painfully through her battered body, Athara managed to roll to her side, gasping for air as her very bones seemed to suddenly be made of grinding stone while her head spun and throbbed.

Only to find herself locking eyes with an equally disoriented Rebel woman.

She was young, though not quite so young as Athara.

And fear alit in her green eyes, replacing disoriented though still desperate determination as she realized precisely who she was looking at.

But somehow, for some strange, inexplicable reason, Athara suddenly found her mind curiously blank as she looked at the other woman…save for an odd measure of kinship with her. There was no enmity, no hate, no disdain. Not even any sense or realization that they were on different sides.

Just, nothing.

Nothing save the realization that, in that moment, they were both on the cusp of an abrupt and senseless death.

It was bizarre and startling and had come completely out of nowhere. It was a feeling that she suddenly got the sense that the other woman was sharing, bewilderment fighting with the fear in those large green eyes.

And it oddly enough left her wondering if this woman actually _chose_ the side she was on, or if it was a chance of circumstance…like it was for Athara.

That was a startling realization all its own.

One that left a small, trembling fragment of emotion that felt vaguely like doubt and uncertainty deep in her chest.

Overhead a pair of TIE fighters screamed and the ion cannon rumbled out more shots. It effectively broke the moment, especially when the sound of approaching Rebel fighters had Athara jerking around to spot the pair of X-Wings coming straight at the platform.

The first darted over the platform, rattling the debris strewn around Athara as it pulled away from its strafing run, the blasterbolts it rained down on them causing Athara to curl around herself, her arms instinctively rising to cover her head and face as pebble-sized chunks of platform rained down on her.

It was enough to wake Athara from the odd moment of kinship with the Rebel woman.

It was enough to reawaken her rage.

As the Dark Side washed over her, Athara could feel her eyes begin to prickle as sickly yellow began to overtake blue-grey as her head lifted from beneath her shielding arms. With another cry, the Force surged out from her hand as she reached out with her feelings for a hunk of burning rubble not far away, pulling it up and before her as another wave of blasterfire from the second fighter strafed the landing platform, shielding the Sith apprentice from the deadly bolts. Athara didn’t even care in that moment that levitating the hundreds of pounds of concrete and durasteel was far beyond her supposed abilities, or that in doing so, she was effectively protecting the young Rebel behind her as well.

The chunk of platform disintegrated beneath the barrage of fire, but it gave Athara more than enough time to regain her feet.

Without even sparing the Rebel another glance—she refused to reflect that their odd moment of connection was perhaps urging the Sith apprentice to a careless bit of mercy despite knowing the other woman was undoubtedly a traitor—Athara was stalking across the burning remnants of the platform, uncaring that her face was exposed or strands of her hair clung, dripping, to her face. She was single-minded in her path as she passed the scattered bodies of troopers and officers alike as she made her way toward the shuttle. She didn’t even glance down at Galen Erso as she stepped over his still form; he was beyond her notice now. Neither did she flinch as a flaming TIE fighter careened into the cliff-face above the platform, the impact taking out the facility’s defensive command centre with a deafening scream of engines and destruction.

She only paused on her route when a pale flash of fabric between her and the ship caught her attention.

With a snarl she was striding toward Krennic, her hand fisting in his cloak and yanking. Adrenaline, the Force and the help of the Death Trooper already tugging at his charge instantly had the Director staggering but on his feet, still visibly dazed from the blast that had knocked them all to the ground in the first place. But he had enough command of himself that, at the sight of the furious features he was seeing for the first time, he was able to prevent himself from instinctively cowering away from her. Not that he was able to prevent himself from flinching violently at the intensity of her glare, her yellowed eyes virtually glowing with rage.

“You have no idea how tempted I am to leave you here, Krennic,” she said softly, her low, threatening murmur somehow still audible despite the chaos around them. “Get on the shuttle.” Fear alight in his eyes, Krennic only nodded mutely before staggering back toward the shuttle, his movements disjointed and obviously eager to escape the attacking Rebel fighters…and Obscura’s volatile aura. He only paused to glance back at the still body of Galen Erso, his face unreadable.

But any relief he might have gotten from reaching the comparative safety of his shuttle was short lived as Athara strode up the ramp after him, hood once again in place. Her voice was cool with fury as she took command of his troopers and remaining officers, the black-clad soldiers not even hesitating to obey in the face of her temper. She nearly growled as one of the officers relayed the damage the facility had taken. The Rebellion attack had been thorough…and effective.

“Send word to the remaining Eadu commanders on my authorization; they are to evacuate immediately and initiate the facility’s self-destruct: the installation is lost. And inform Governor Tarkin what has happened at once.” A small, angry sound of objection managed to escape Krennic as he tried to regain his feet and his voice enough to contradict her order even as the highest-ranking officer left all but dove for the shuttle’s comm to carry out her commands. But another harsh look from Athara had the Director falling silent. Satisfied he’d been sufficiently cowed, Athara turned to the trooper standing near her right shoulder.

“Inform the pilot to set a course for Mustafar,” she snapped before turning to where Krennic sat, all but slumped on the bank of seats, watching her with fearful, wary eyes. “Did you forget your request for an audience with My Master had been granted?” From the way his face paled, she knew the Director was no longer certain he wanted to meet with Vader.

And Athara couldn’t help but think he had good reason.


	6. Chapter 6

Her mood was still dark, though not quite so volatile as it had been, as Krennic’s shuttle dropped out of hyperspace above Mustafar. That her meditations and attempts at sinking into some measure of a healing trance had been largely unsuccessful because of it certainly didn’t help, leaving her frustrated and struggling to ignore the lingering pain from the abuse her body had endured on the platform on Eadu. Thankfully, though, the looming Darkness allowed her to virtually disregard her discomfort instead, allowing her to effectively trick her conscious mind not to feel it; if she couldn’t manage to coax her body to heal, convincing herself she wasn’t in pain at all was the next best thing…to some extent. Not that it was a perfect strategy.

At least her eyes felt like they beginning to return to their natural shade of blue-grey. That was something.

Her mood was still dark enough that she still didn’t regret sending the pilots out to wait in the passenger compartment with Krennic and the remainder of his men shortly after jumping to hyperspace, knowing full well she didn’t have the patience to endure their trembling and anxiety as they navigated the descent to Vader’s Fortress. Instead she took the pilot’s seat, the focus necessary to guide the shuttle to the planet’s surface more than enough to monopolize her attention and give her lingering temper purpose.

Her dark mood sharpened her senses, heightening her reflexes and warning her when necessary as she piloted the ungainly shuttle through the unstable atmosphere. It made the journey marginally easier and somewhat quicker as a result, which she was grateful for. Not that she was about to grow complacent about piloting anything on the lava planet. The Force might have made it easier, but Athara was not entirely immune from the growing tension each threatening natural hazard or wave of interference fed.

Thankfully, they were soon in range of the Fortress’s guidance systems. Once they had taken over guiding the shuttle to the landing pad, it left Athara free to let the anxiety she’d been pointedly ignoring in favour of concentrating on her task begin to bleed from her system with the added benefit of taking some of the anger lingering from Eadu with it.

It wasn’t long after that that her slowly normalizing gaze picked out the imposing black edifice where it appeared like a stark absence of light, rather than a solid structure, standing tall above a single, vibrantly bright waterfall of lava. As the shuttle circled around to the landing pad, Athara could feel the knot of tension in her chest easing further, and she finally allowed herself to contemplate what awaited her inside.

For the entire journey to Mustafar, Athara had found herself fighting to regain control of herself following the chaos on the Eadu facility’s landing platform. The shuttle had barely cleared the rainy planet’s atmosphere before she was realizing she had allowed herself to display a dangerous lack of self-control. It was that realization and the resultant craving for a measure of solitude that had spurred her desire to evict the pilots from the cockpit more than almost anything else, even eclipsing her desire to be as far away from Krennic as she could manage.

Athara was strong with the Force. She’d known this since she was old enough to understand what her Master meant when he spoke of it. Even before that, she’d had a sense that there was something within herself that was, for lack of a better term, special.

She’d also known for nearly as long that her strength had to be kept a complete and utter secret. The Emperor did not suffer challengers and, as her Master had made certain she understood almost from the time he entered into her memory, if Palpatine knew how strong she was, he would consider her a threat. Vader had explained that, had the Emperor known of her when she was an infant, or even when she’d still been a small child, he may very well have taken her from Vader to train into an agent of his own. But the chance had been far greater that he would simply kill her rather than take the risk of her one day threatening him. The Dark Side, her Master had explained once, fostered jealousy, suspicion and ambition in its servants, and the Emperor was no exception. The only way to keep her safe was to hide her strength and hide the truth that she was genuinely Darth Vader’s apprentice, and not just his nominal pupil or his pet as her Master allowed his Master to believe.

So Vader had shielded her potential until she had learned enough of the Force and developed her own abilities enough to shield it herself. And she had been doing so without fail and without faltering ever since. She and her Master had worked hard to ensure that the Emperor and his spies genuinely believed that her Force-abilities were for little more than show, that she had only enough command of the Force and the Dark Side to use them in the most basic and flashy of ways; useful for enforcing her position and reputation as Vader’s Shadow only, but for little else.

Even her use of a lightsaber was little more than symbolic as far as Palpatine was concerned.

But in nearly losing control of her temper on Eadu like that? She’d nearly destroyed everything. She had threatened everything she and her Master had done to keep her safe, and that shook her in a way that the Dark Side of the Force could not soothe. The Dark Side was not made for such things.

Yet, even as panic threaded with chilling shards of despair threatened to grow unchecked through her at the thought of what her reckless actions had risked, a subtle feeling of calm comfort seemed to wrap around her consciousness much like a soft blanket would around her shoulders.

The familiar sensation brought with it a relief so profound that her eyes began to prickle again, though this time with moisture rather than rage.

She craved the reassurance and peace it provided enough that, no matter that Athara had no idea where it came from, she let the sensation do as it willed. She let it comfort her just as it had anytime she’d felt particularly frightened or anxious or alone for a long as she could remember. The feeling was precious and had always been there when she needed it most, so she never questioned it. She probably should have. After all, calm and comfort were not of the Dark Side and she was a Sith apprentice; passion led to strength, not calm. That was what she’d been taught. The Darkness always lingering in the back of her mind did question it, and urged her to reject it every time it appeared, coiling and flinching at the threat the calm feeling was to the Dark Side.

But oddly enough, she always embraced it, or rather, let it embrace her regardless of the reservations borne of the Dark Side; she trusted the feeling, and trust was hard to come by in her life. And just as she never felt the need to reject it overwhelm her need to embrace the feeling, she’d never felt the need to try and discern its source, mysterious and unknown as it was.

Mostly because she’d realized long ago that, on some level, she felt she knew already.

Not that she consciously knew, of course. She had no idea where the feeling came from or what it even was. It was only a subconscious sense that she knew, but one strong enough that she’d accepted the feeling and welcomed its help in her most vulnerable moments her entire life.

It was also why the feeling was one of the meagre handful of secrets she’d ever kept from her Master…

No matter her thoughts—questioning or accepting or otherwise—on the feeling, it was very welcome to help banish the sense of fear and failure Eadu had left like a bitter, lingering taste in her mouth. And by the time Krennic’s shuttle groaned and shuddered as it touched down on the landing pad behind her Master’s Fortress, Athara had banished those feelings from her mind, allowing her to renew her focus on what waited inside the imposing structure for her.

It also meant her lingering anger and impatience with the Director whose shuttle she was on was able to reemerge. As she slipped from the cockpit out to the passenger compartment of the shuttle, the sight of Krennic’s pale but determined features left her with a grim sense of amusement that managed to cheer her up considerably. And it was with a small sense of satisfaction that she gleaned a sense of scared wariness as she strode by him without a glance, skimming through his surface thoughts with the Force as she passed.

At least he seemed to realize that he was potentially in a great deal of trouble with her Master.

It was enough for the time being.

She barely waited for the landing pad’s protective energy field to reengage before she was hitting the control for the boarding ramp herself and descending from the shuttle with her cloak billowing out around her. A few clipped instructions was all it took to have Commander Adahn, who had been waiting patiently just inside the vestibule, nodding in understanding and striding back the way she’d come to direct Krennic and Krennic alone up to the gallery where her Master quite often preferred to meet with visitors to his forbidding retreat.

She, in the meantime, needed to inform her Master of what had transpired.

That she was not looking forward to.

But she knew it was something she had to do, which was the thought she allowed to drive her as she once again punched in her override code to her Master’s private chambers.

It was only when she saw the Medical Unit was empty and the room even darker than it was usually kept, that she realized she may have made a mistake. A handful of security lights provided only a dim glow along the main traffic areas of the larger chamber, leaving the room with the imposing Medical Unit at its centre hidden in grim, heavy shadow. The large doors that led to the small antechamber that guarded the cavernous room where the specially-designed Bacta Chamber was housed were impassively shut.

She had never once set foot in the abyss-like cavern, only ever catching glimpses in the past of the pod-like chamber inside that held the specifically designed medical equipment that helped keep her Master alive. Steeling herself, Athara turned for the door, deciding in that split-second that the news she bore was worth risking her Master’s wrath.

Only to have the hunched and cloaked figure of her Master’s attendant Vaneé appear virtually out of nowhere to stand in her way. Irritation prickled through her, the feeling strong enough in that moment that her skin seemed to itch with it.

“Step aside, Vaneé,” she ordered, her voice low. Though she felt unease rippling through the old man, she sensed little in the way of fear. The man was her Master’s attendant at the Emperor’s behest—a doctor or some such thing in a past life, and had supposedly had a hand in the creation of her Master’s suit and its life-preserving capabilities—who haunted the medical chambers of her Master’s Fortress. He was one of the few people her Master allowed in his presence when he was undergoing one or another of his many medical procedures. The old man, his face impassive and nearly vacant in a way that always managed to unnerve Athara, merely bowed, his hands clasped loosely before him.

“I’m sorry, My Lady, but Lord Vader is in the middle of an important rejuvenation cycle. He has given orders not to be disturbed.” Athara’s nose wrinkled. Of course that was his response. Normally she would relent and allow that an order from her Master would supersede one of her own. But there was nothing normal about the circumstances that had her facing off against the unsettling cloaked attendant. She took a step closer, her temper rising to drown out the anxious way the knowledge of what had happened on Eadu tugged at her mind.

“He would wish to be disturbed for this,” she said as calmly as she could, unable to keep the sense of urgency from her voice but still surprising herself at how collected she managed to sound. “Director Krennic is here as my Master has commanded, along with pressing, even critical intelligence about the Death Star. I suggest that either you let me pass or that you inform him immediately.” Though he didn’t meet her glare, hidden though it was beneath her cowl, she did see a ripple of recognition cross his papery, creased features even as his eyes flicked to her shadowed face. An involuntary sigh of relief nearly escaped her as she realized meaning behind that recognition; her Master left the attendant instruction should she return bearing just that news.

“If you’ll wait here, My Lady,” he intoned, his voice nearly sounding distracted. With another bow he turned, leaving her standing nearly in the middle of the chamber.

As the doors between Athara and her Master hissed open to allow Vaneé passage into the cavern that held the Bacta Chamber, Athara’s eyes widened inadvertently with an unconscious jolt of anticipation. Without conscious thought, she was stepping forward first one step, then another until she had crossed the short gantry spanning the cavern, stopping just short of following into the vestibule. Tucking herself instinctively into the nearly impenetrable shadow just shy of the antechamber’s entry, her position gave her a clear view into the chamber that held her Master as the last barrier hissed open.

She barely even realized what she was doing, unable to look away despite the uneasy feeling deep in her gut telling her she should.

Instead she took in the steam drifting lazily from the tubes and mechanisms affixed to the ceiling. She noticed the pair of crimson-robed Imperial Guards standing vigil in service to her temporarily vulnerable Master. The faint hum that filled the air from the medical equipment as the doors opened drifted toward her just as the cloying odour of Bacta mixing with an indefinable bittersweet scent did, cutting through the dry, faintly sulfurous scent of the abyss that sheltered the Bacta Chamber.

And along with it came creeping tendrils of Darkness, something deep inside her cringing back in revulsion as even she felt just how intoxicatingly strong the presence of Dark Side was in that room, how it called to her.

But then her eyes latched onto the glowing Bacta tube where she could sense her Master was ensconced. It was as Vaneé knelt before the tube, silhouetted against the bright wash of light hiding her Master’s form that the weight of what she was seeing began to sink in.

Athara froze, unable to make so much as a startled gasp, barely able to so much as think. Unable to look away.

As Vaneé spoke, his voice faint from the distance as he informed her Master of her return and Krennic’s arrival, a shape surrounded by dark, spidering tubes loomed forward within the tank, the pale form murky and indistinct for all its familiarity as something—mostly—human. With a muffled clank and a gurgling, sloshing rumble, the Bacta tank began to open and retract.

As the seal broke, something inside her snapped and finally forced Athara’s eyes away. Again, without conscious thought, she turned and strode back across the gantry, though to the main door of her Master’s chambers and back out into the corridor, her heart abruptly hammering so violently in her chest she feared it would shatter her ribs.

And she very nearly didn’t stop as the doors shut with a dull clunk behind her. Her thoughts suddenly chaotic, it took far more willpower than it should have to keep herself from moving farther than the handful of strides she had taken away from the darkened quarters behind her. But even as Athara fought back the panic threatening in the back of her mind at what she’d _nearly_ seen, she couldn’t stop moving, the anxiety borne from what little she _had_ seen growing and pulsing in her chest in time with her pacing steps and thrumming heart as she loitered in front of her Master’s chambers.

Whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not, it seemed the looming shape in the Bacta chamber was already haunting her.

And she hadn’t even lingered long enough to actually _see_ him.

It was a long time before the door she was pacing before opened. She was so on edge she started as the door’s locking mechanism disengaged with a low whirr, her entire body tensing at the sound. It was enough to snap her out of her spiralling agitation at what she’d come so close to seeing.

Cursing her reaction and her lack of attention, she realized just how out of control she’d allowed her mind to get. Mortified, she desperately fought to push the thoughts of the glowing tank with its indistinct occupant away from where it lingered in her mind’s eye, to clear the simultaneously acrid and sickly odour of the chamber as it clung to her throat and banish the sound of that releasing seal on the Bacta tank from where it seemed to echo in her ears. She was anxious to, if not forget them—she knew that would be impossible—at least hide them away so her Master wouldn’t sense what she’d seen. She was so focused on doing so that she nearly started again as the sense of comfort and calm seemed to wrap itself around the memory as though shielding her from it. Her knees nearly went weak with relief when it did.

Though it felt like it took an age, the entire process lasted barely the span of a heartbeat—not even long enough for the door to open completely.

Steeling herself as a dull clunk signaled the opening doors locking into place, Athara turned and entered her Master’s chamber, her head held high as she passed Vaneé on his way out. Her Master would not know she’d seen him at his most vulnerable, not if she could help it. Her Master would not sense that seeing him thus had unnerved her, frightened her even, more than any fit of rage or fury she’d ever seen in him. She would keep that knowledge from him because, deep down, she somehow knew it would hurt him.

Instead she distracted herself with the reminder of her reason for seeking out her Master and of the Director who waited many, many floors above in the main gallery, waiting for Vader and his judgment.

As she approached, carefully restraining her traitorous gaze from flicking to the doors that led to the Bacta chamber, Vader’s mask turned to face her, the familiar visage of plasteel and metal once again safely hiding his true features. Similarly, his torso was once again clad in the familiar tunic and dark armour even as a medical droid finished affixing and adjusting the panel on his chest that contained the primary function controls for his suit. His legs also, were mostly back to normal, his pants and boot in place on his right leg as another droid finished up its work on the left before tucking the fabric of his pants into the polished boot. His arms were much as they had been before Athara had left for Eadu, though this time both were bare down to the cybernetic structures; the right was only then being attached, the droid just beginning to reconnect it as she reached the base of her Master’s Medical Unit. With one final push, she locked away the tumultuous feelings generated by the glimpse of the Bacta chamber she wasn’t supposed to see, coming to a stop before her Master just as he looked up to her, his consciousness reaching out to brush against hers, gauging her.

“So, my apprentice; what news is there from Eadu? How did Director Krennic handle his security breach?” Her angry frustration at the Director was renewed by the mere mention of him, the rain-soaked events that played out on the landing platform of the facility he founded racing through her memory.

And she told her Master everything that had happened.


	7. Chapter 7

It took a special sort of willpower when Athara left her Master’s presence to keep it from appearing like she was running away. And whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not, no matter that it was a measured but swift pace instead of a dead run that took her out of his chambers, she was.

No matter that she’d kept what she’d glimpsed in the Bacta chamber that what she’d seen had shaken her well hidden from him—thank the Force for the years of training to keep her thoughts and feelings safely hidden away from both her features and her surface thoughts—Athara suspected he’d known regardless. And that thought left guilt welling heavily in her chest in a way that mingled uncomfortably with her guilt from seeing that awful glimpse of him, leaving her feeling faintly sick. But the second wash of guilt didn’t detract from the first…unfortunately.

She couldn’t even fathom what her reaction might have been had she not retreated when she had. As it was, a small, pervading fear that she wouldn’t be able to face her Master after even the small glimpse she’d had was trying to worm its way into her thoughts. She’d managed to bury it away, but it had clung to the back of her mind the entire time she’d been in her Master’s presence despite her best efforts.

She was sure she would be able to come to terms with what she had and hadn’t seen quickly enough once she was able to shut herself away to process it in solitude. But the image of her Master’s indistinct form emerging, wrath-like, from the gloom of the tank was fixed like a glowing beacon in her mind now that she was out of her Master’s presence. She couldn’t _not_ dwell on it.

How he was still alive…

And there it was. The root. She fought back a shudder.

If his body was so badly ravaged by whatever had happened to him in the past—on the very planet she was on, if the clues she had pieced together over the years and the proddings the Force had given her were correct—as her glimpse suggested, no amount of Bacta or cybernetic replacements should have been able to keep him alive. And certainly not for so long. It had to be down to an act of will. Willpower and the Force. Though there was a discordant flicker in the Force around her as she concluded as much, she could fathom no other explanation.

And the Darkness! The Chamber had been positively saturated with it, adding certainty to her conclusion that the Dark Side played a key role in sustaining her Master’s body. Part of her had instinctively recoiled from the strength and potency of it oozing from the chamber.

Yet, there was another part of her that was unable to deny its allure. It had been that call that had held her entranced even as a voice in the back of her mind had urged her to look away, to follow her Master’s wishes, his orders; to maintain his trust in her by following his simple directive that she stay away while he underwent his treatments. But the Dark Side had overwhelmed her, she realized now, overriding her instincts to simply turn away, to leave him be. Because she knew she should have, and not just in retrospect.

It was a betrayal of his trust like nothing she’d ever before committed, like none of her few secrets from him had ever approached. Guilt churned in her belly at that thought. And if the odd feeling she’d gotten in her gut was right? If that odd, indefinable look he’d given her and the unreadable waver of emotion she’d felt immediately before he dismissed her meant what she hoped it didn’t?

It was likely that her Master had known what she’d seen despite her certainty that she’d hidden the proof in her mind perfectly.

It was then she realized there was every chance he’d sensed her tumultuous thoughts as she’d paced outside his chambers…or even when she’d stood transfixed looking into the Bacta chamber itself. And really, there was little chance he hadn’t, especially given how strong the Dark Side had been in her Master’s presence; she was no stranger to how the Dark Side enhanced its servant’s senses, after all. She shuddered as the memory of the Dark Side’s potency crept into her thoughts again, this time the tremor making its way through her body.

But despite the sides of her torn between the odd feeling of revulsion and the tantalizing allure of the Dark Side, yet another part of her felt oddly grateful to it. Her Master was probably—no, definitely the most important figure, the most important person in her life. There was no doubt about that; there hadn’t been since she was a child. The idea of losing him? Pain stabbed through her chest at the mere idea, easily drowning out the memory of the Bacta chamber. No, if it was the Dark Side responsible for keeping her Master alive, she was grateful for that.

Because she had no one else.

The revelation hit her so suddenly that her stride faltered.

And, just like that, the lingering uneasiness and revulsion that stemmed from the glimpse she’d gotten of his broken body and the overwhelming weight of the Darkness sustaining him melted away. That she had him to care for and protect her far overshadowed all other feelings she could have on the matter.

The realization that her horrible glimpse into the Bacta chamber had truly changed very little did wonders to clear her thoughts, not that she believed that was the end of it just yet. She was far too practical to believe any such thing. But without it weighing quite so heavily over her, it meant she was free to focus on what lay on the other side of the door she was approaching: The impending meeting with Director Orson Krennic.

A task arguably more unpleasant still.

Especially upon catching sight of his indignant expression when the door to the gallery opened and the impatiently waiting Director realized it was _only_ Athara on the other side. Judging by the severely unimpressed, even insulted twisting of his features as he turned back to the view overlooking the lava fields, he’d more than regained his usual self-assured bravado and sense of superiority. Athara nearly grinned as she crossed over the threshold and onto the gantry leading to the central platform of gallery, her footsteps echoing throughout the cathedral-like space. She couldn’t imagine his attitude was going to last long once her Master arrived.

“It appears you have sufficiently recovered after your experience on Eadu, Director,” she said conversationally as she approached where the Director waited just short of the circular platform. Though she was tempted to insist on passing him to reach the gallery platform proper, she settled for effectively obstructing the walkway instead, coming to a stop an arm’s length from Krennic, blocking his way back to entry she’d just come through; it left him no where to go save toward the platform and the door opposite that her Master was due to arrive through at any moment. Krennic began to sneer, his nose starting to wrinkle before he seemed to remember just where he was and who she was closely associated with. Instead, he nodded stiffly before speaking, the effort to keep his disdain for her in check rather poorly concealed.

“Your Master is keeping me waiting,” the Director declared impatiently without even bothering to glance in her direction. Her grin made it to her lips this time. She couldn’t help but think he sounded rather petulant instead of imperious as she suspected was his intent.

“My Master does as he pleases,” she retorted dismissively, knowing her tone would get under his skin, “and you are here at his discretion, Krennic. You would do well to remember as much.” As she predicted, Krennic straightened, seeming to puff up with indignation as he turned to her. Distantly, she could feel her Master making his way toward them.

“And you would do well to remember who I am, Obscura,” Krennic snapped back, his temper getting the better of him. “It is because of me that the Death Star, a key piece of the Emperor’s vision for the Empire, is a success. It is because of me, that the Death Star is operational.” A flicker of foreboding shivered across Athara’s skin at the pronouncement, sparking a vague sense of unease to wake deep in her belly, but she paid it little mind.

“Your successes have been debatable at best, Krennic,” she countered with an absent gesture of dismissal that left the Director fuming, “That the Death Star is operational seems a small accomplishment indeed when you consider that it took nearly twenty years to complete, due in no small part, I think, to your incompetence. It does not seem such a stretch to say it is a viable weapon _despite_ your efforts, best or otherwise.” Krennic’s eyes flashed with outrage.

“What are you suggesting, Obscura?!” She shrugged at his impassioned demand.

“Only that despite your considerable qualifications in your field, you were poorly suited to overseeing the construction of the Death Star and suited even less to commanding it.”

“And you think you could do better?” Athara nearly snickered, her amusement growing as she felt her Master drawing closer.

“My qualifications are not in question, not that I have any desire to oversee or command the Death Star. I am not an engineer or a scientist. I am not an Administrator. I am not a Director, and I have no wish to be—”

“Then how dare you question—” Athara’s mood instantly darkened at Krennic’s ill-tempered interruption, cutting him off with a sharp step toward him; impressively—or perhaps foolishly—Krennic held his ground, his face impassive even if his eyes weren’t.

“I will dare however I wish, Krennic,” she snapped, “I may not be any of those things, but I am Lord Vader’s Right Hand, his Shadow. And you would do well to remember that.” Her voice was low by the end and it was laced with warning so thick it bordered on threatening. Krennic, at least, was aware enough to recognize it, his face paling even as a wavering mix of fear and outrage flickered in his eyes.

It was at that moment that the immense door on the opposite end of the gallery groaned and began to inch open, the light appearing at its base nearly blinding as it flooded the dimly lit chamber. Krennic turned abruptly where he stood between Athara and the slowly rising door, his apprehension as he realized the Dark Lord of the Sith had arrived instantly erasing the ire fed by Athara’s needling of his ego.

As her Master’s silhouetted figure emerged through the steam rising from below the gallery platform, Athara easily sensed as that apprehension threatened to turn to fear. Whether he intended it or not, Athara had to admit her Master had a talent for intimidating and dramatic entrances. She could almost swear she heard the Director swallow convulsively, squaring his shoulders in a show of affected confidence as he turned and stepped forward to meet the Sith Lord striding toward them head on. Not that it would fool Vader anymore than it had Athara. She was easily able to sense his anxiety and dread, the emotions causing the Dark Side in her to flutter happily with what she sensed. It would be child’s play for her Master.

“Director Krennic,” Vader greeted as he reached the platform, his voice dispassionate as he stared down at the man before him. Though he hesitated for only a moment, Krennic did manage a small, nearly timid nod before forcing out a greeting in kind. Athara watched the exchange closely as she edged up to the circular platform herself, enjoying how her Master’s mere presence was enough to leave the normally self-assured Director all but speechless and nearly trembling from nerves. And if what she sensed from her Master was true, the Sith Lord was similarly entertained.

“You seem unsettled,” her Master prompted wryly, beginning to circle the Director in an almost predatory manner before turning to look out at the view spread before them. Out beyond the tower, rivers and lakes of lava glowed beneath a sooty black sky, the fumes from the molten rock rising in a toxic, smoky haze that distorted the vista below. Krennic hesitated again before responding, his voice weak at first, stumbling over his words as he struggled to regain his composure.

“No. A-at this—present time, there are a great many things to attend to—” If she could see her Master’s face, Athara would have been tempted to believe he rolled his eyes at the flustered, almost uncertain response.

“My apologies,” Vader interrupted as he turned abruptly back to Krennic. The sarcasm was harshly evident in his voice despite his vocorder’s tendency to make such distinctions in tone hard to discern. “You do have a great many things to explain.” Athara  grinned as her Master’s voice grew as pointed as his words. Oh, how true that was. Krennic shifted uncomfortably, his posture growing defensive.

“I delivered the weapon the Emperor requested,” he countered weakly, though his voice strengthened as his own self-assurance finally began to recover in the face of Vader’s presence, his characteristic boldness returning. “I deserve an audience to make certain he understands its remarkable…” only for his audacity to fizzle out as Vader stepped closer, looming over the Director, “…potential.” Despite his hesitation, there was something in his voice that caused Athara pause the same way she had at his claim to her earlier, something she could tell her Master picked up on as well though he made no indication as he countered Krennic’s assertion.

“Its power to create problems can certainly be confirmed,” the Sith Lord said dryly before his tone shifted again, turning hard as his irritation became unquestionably apparent. “A city destroyed. An Imperial Facility openly attacked.” Vader stepped past the Director again to stalk toward the massive viewport that dominated exterior wall of the gallery, his temper growing with each passing moment in Krennic’s company. Athara glanced up at her Master, now gauging his response almost as much as she was the Director’s. Krennic visibly flinched at the harsh reproach in Vader’s voice, his own tone once again reserved, even meek at first as he turned, offering up his reply to Vader’s back.

“It was Governor Tarkin who suggested the test.” Athara’s gaze flicked back to Krennic, her own temper sparking at how obvious and clumsy his attempted deflection of the blame was. Her Master similarly turned back to the Director, his voice betraying his barely restrained impatience even as his mask could not.

“You were not summoned here to grovel, Director Krennic,” Vader effectively sneered back. Athara could feel the Director smarting at the rebuke, but his fear in Vader’s presence wisely kept him from acting upon it…for the most part.

“No, it’s—”

“More excuses will not help your case, Krennic.” Athara couldn’t restrain herself from interrupting him, knowing full well that the man was preparing himself to argue the point. This time the Director visibly bristled with indignation, his eyes again flashing with it as he glanced past Vader to where Athara still stood at the edge of the platform, no longer content to simply observe in silence. In a fit of pique, Krennic’s gaze snapped back to Vader, his voice sharper than it had been thus far as he let his temper get the better of him, his words flying impulsively from his mouth.

“Leash your pet, Lord Vader. The disrespect she gives me should not be tolerated.”

“As you have yet to earn _my_ respect or show me the respect _I_ am owed, what makes you think I would show you any,” she snapped back before her Master could even consider responding, her tone falsely polite though her eyes positively glowed with her own ire, “you have done little to earn it so far, Krennic.” Vader’s head tilted minutely in her direction for a moment, a faint wash of silent admonishment reaching her through the Force before pulling back. She nearly grinned despite her anger when she then sensed his tacit approval of her opinion even if he wasn’t entirely pleased at her unguarded display of it. The private exchange between the two Force-users was enough to temporarily cool both their growing tempers, something their white-uniformed colleague was oblivious to. Krennic, meanwhile, was drawing himself up with outrage, his own anger making him reckless and irrational.

“As the Commander of The Dea—”

“There is no Death Star,” Vader cut him off sharply, his attention returning to the Director along with his displeasure as he paced around the shorter man again, “the Senate has been informed that Jedha was destroyed in a mining disaster.” His point was abundantly clear, and Krennic shrank back in response as her Master continued, satisfied that his reminder of the secrecy of the Death Star project had been understood. “My apprentice is correct, Director: the time for excuses is over. They will do you no good from now on.” Visibly chastened, Krennic seemed to deflate before Athara’s eyes, his anger shifting to sullenness as Vader rebuked him much like the Director had intended to do to Athara.

“Yes, My Lord.” Krennic had no choice but to agree, though his newly deferential tone nevertheless betrayed his reluctance to do so. Again, Athara got the distinct impression that, beneath the mask, her Master was sneering down at the Director as he continued.

“I expect you not to rest until you can assure the Emperor that Galen Erso has not compromised this weapon in any way.” With each word Vader had stepped closer to the Director, looming over him again as he punctuated his final words with a decidedly menacing finger raised between them.

And with that, the Dark Lord of the Sith stepped around Krennic and back down the gantry he’d entered across. Without needing a word of command, Athara followed behind him, severely tempted to shoulder past Krennic in her own display of contempt. Instead, she merely levelled him with a hard glare as she passed, grimly satisfied as he flinched involuntarily in response. But just as she was striding past him, the Director’s expectant voice halted both her and her Master in their tracks.

“So I’m still in command?” Where Vader merely stopped, Athara turned at Krennic’s question, unable to help but frown incredulously at the man when she caught sight of the avid, nearly smug glint in his eyes. But Krennic ignored her, his attention wholly on Vader as he persisted. “You’ll speak to the Emperor about th—” There was no mistaking why Krennic fell silent. Athara watched in grim satisfaction as confusion followed closely by realization and panic wiped the eager look from Krennic’s face. The silence stretched, heavy and charged as Krennic fell to his knees with a silent gasp, his hand rising involuntarily to the invisible grip around his windpipe.

“Be careful not to choke on your aspirations, Director.” Athara felt more than saw her Master turn to view his handiwork as he spoke, knowing without needing to see it that his fingers were held in a mirror to the Force-grip slowly choking the life out of the brazen Director. She could sense it.

Just as she could sense it when her Master released the man, Krennic’s hoarse gasps merely confirming as much. As he coughed breathlessly, Athara couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would’ve been truly upset had her Master followed through instead of merely giving warning…

As Vader marched back up the gantry and out of the gallery, Athara took a step closer to Krennic, eyes narrowing at his reaction as the Director watched Vader’s retreat with growing vindication. But the instant she started speaking, the smug expression was wiped away, the Director’s gaze flashing up to where Athara looked down at him from beneath the impenetrable shadow of her deep hood. Especially when she ghosted her own Force-grip around his throat; not squeezing, but merely reinforcing her Master’s warning and her own.

“You’re lucky it’s not up to me, Krennic, or you wouldn’t be smirking at anything anymore,” she murmured just loudly enough for him to hear, knowing perfectly well that there was no mistaking the warning in her dispassionate tone. She didn’t wait to see how the Director blanched at her words, turning sharply just as her Master had done upon releasing her grip, her cloak wafting around her as she did before she followed Vader up the gantry.

It wasn’t long before she caught up to him, her Master having checked his brisk strides once he had reached the corridor beyond the gallery. But she didn’t have a chance to speak, her Master not even glancing down at her as she fell into step beside him.

“I want you to be my eyes, my apprentice,” he said almost softly, his aura distinctly troubled even as his vocorder prevented his voice from sounding as much. Athara nearly hesitated at the feelings she was sensing in her Master. The reason was made clear as he continued, his pace pausing as he turned to her. “Go to Jedha; what Krennic implied about his Battlestation is…troubling.” The rest was left unsaid, but Athara knew what her Master wanted of her instinctively.

_We need confirmation of what the Death Star is actually capable of._

Unease once again surfaced in Athara’s belly as she nodded once, signalling her obedience even as she spoke it: “of course, Master.” Even as Vader moved to continue on down the corridor, her thoughts were already turning his words and her instructions over in her head, absently wondering if her shuttle had returned yet. She knew she would need to wait until it was if it hadn’t yet; the _Devastator_ had left on a mission of its own shortly before she’d set out for Eadu and had yet to return, hence her use of a shuttle to get to the rainy planet in the first place. If only she had her own…before she could resist, a mischievous smirk sprang to her lips and she found herself calling out after her Master.

“So when do I get my own Star Destroyer?” The impish comment caused the Sith Lord to stop in his tracks, his reaction drawing a wide smile from Athara.

“When I decide you’re ready for one, my young apprentice,” he replied immediately with a flash of something that felt an awful lot like amusement. It did a great deal to ease the dread growing in her belly.

Then, without another word they parted ways; Vader back to his Chambers…

…and Athara on to Jedha.


	8. Chapter 8

When she’d first heard of the Death Star’s weapon’s test over Jedha, Athara had been insatiably curious to see what, if anything, remained of Jedha City. After the veritable legend the Death Star had become among those who knew of it thanks to its infamous delays, she had been curious to find out whether the Emperor’s special project was _finally_ a viable weapon, a success.

Now?

She was not too proud to admit to herself that she was afraid to find out. Krennic had always been supremely confident in his Battlestation and its potential, sometimes detrimentally so. But there had been nothing, no hint of exaggeration or overestimation, in his interrupted declaration to her Master or his comments to her before Vader had appeared. Only unadulterated fact…and awe. The particular level of confidence he’d had, the surge of righteous vindication she and her Master had sensed before her Master’s intimidating proximity had cut him off? That couldn’t be faked. Not by him. Not even if she had been truly underestimating his ability to bluff and mislead as she’d begun to suspect on Eadu after his manipulation of Galen Erso. It unsettled her. He was so sure that his Battlestation easily met all expectations—no, that it far and away _surpassed_ them.

The idea was terrifying.

And his absolute conviction unnerved her.

Just as it had apparently troubled her Master enough to send her to determine just how potent Krennic’s Superweapon truly was.

Hence her trip to desert moon.

After her first visit to Jedha, Athara had been quite content with the idea of never having to visit the moon again, any appeal having been soured by her previous experiences there. After that trip—mercifully cut short as it had been—her Master had assured her that anymore missteps on Krennic’s part would see Vader himself or Tarkin paying the Director a visit and that any successes would earn the same. He’d told her it would be highly unlikely her presence would be required on or above the cool desert moon again.

And given how soon they had all been assured the Death Star would be completed at the time? She believed him when he said he doubted she would have had any further reason to visit the system again, especially since she wasn’t directly involved in the project anyway; it had effectively been a fluke that she had visited Jedha that one time in the first place. So she’d naturally assumed that that would be the end of that.

So much for her assumptions.

It was enough to stir her memories from her previous visit to the cool desert moon, easily bringing back her experiences in the Holy City, from her surreptitious exploration of the ancient temple to her inspection of the garrison. Especially her accompaniment on one of the crystal collection operations through the city and subsequent engagement with an admittedly well-organized band of Saw Gerrera’s militants. And if that particular thought and the ones that followed didn’t get her temper worked up…

At least she could rest assured that she wouldn’t have to see Krennic this trip. She’d had more than enough of him on Eadu; the additional time spent in his company on Mustafar had more than pushed her past her limit for tolerating the man’s presence. So hearing as she’d been preparing to depart her Master’s Fortress that the Director was heading for Scarif instead of returning to the Death Star? That had not hurt her feelings in the slightest.

But she refused to dwell on the infuriating Director, and given that, at the moment, she was being bombarded with memories from her visit to the Holy City? It was easy enough to do. Every moment was flashing through her thoughts whether she willed it or not.

From the chill in the air that had seemed strange to her given that the predominant feature of the moon was desert, to the unmistakable sense of impending violence that lingered in war zones across the Galaxy and the latent weight to the air perpetuated by the drive of those journeying to the city for all manner pilgrimage, there had been something peculiar and intriguing about the Holy City to Athara from the moment she’d stepped off her shuttle.

The sight of the city rising out of the desert had certainly been one to see; its immense walls seeming to grow out of the rock with the stark, soaring architecture of the Ancient Temple of the Kyber rising proudly above it, appearing like a needle in comparison to the immensity of the city’s ancient defences. That was a thought Athara had kept to herself, though. It was rather looked down on among the Imperial ranks to think favourably of Jedha, after all.

The maze that was the city itself had further intrigued Athara, what with its beguiling sense of history and purpose and the varied range of folk that had wandered its streets; pilgrims, priests, criminals, the lost, the wandering, the hiding. It had certainly been nothing like it once was in millennia past, but there had still been life to the dying city. A sense of vibrancy, though dusty and a bit trampled, had somehow managed to linger in its streets…or perhaps it was desperation. She hadn’t quite been able to tell.

And the Force. The Force had _presence_ on Jedha that she hadn’t anticipated, that she’d known she couldn’t possibly hope to understand. Especially not in the amount of time she’d been on the moon. But that hadn’t stopped her from sensing it. Really, Athara should have anticipated there would be _something_ there. She’d known that the link between Jedha and the Jedi had been an important one, even if just what that link was had apparently been lost to time.

She’d also known that the displays of faith prevalent on Jedha were all but considered seditious in Palpatine’s Empire. But walking through the streets of Jedha, Athara hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that it was all, somehow, vital to the city on a far deeper level than mere trade or industry or other banalities of that sort that were usually considered vital to a settlement’s survival.

It sent a shiver through her even now.

Especially as, among the memories circling and weaving through her conscious thoughts, one in particular—one from that day that had set her so on edge she’d tried to bury it away ever since, hiding it in the deepest recesses of her mind—rose up from her subconscious of its own accord, its murky edges growing clear as it edged its way among the others.

It was a phrase, one that stirred more of the unwanted memory it belonged to until it had risen in its entirety to the forefront of her mind, determined to be remembered despite her best efforts to forget it.

A phrase that had troubled her even then.

 _The Dark Path is not the only Path, My Lady_.

And abruptly she was remembering him clear as day where he’d sat on a crumbling set of stairs; head up and proud; leaning gently on a worn but well-loved walking stick; the red tunic—a curious colour for the pilgrimage, she’d been unable to keep from musing on at the time, especially for those seeking answers from the Force—oddly vibrant where it peeked out from beneath black amid the sandy monotone that seemed to make up the city; a nearly impish smile on lips set among features that were somehow reassuring in their openness; milky eyes managed to convey a depth of wisdom that came from beyond what any normal person should possess.

He had been…well, there were a few words that came to mind. Odd. Curious. Even fascinating. She had been able to feel the Force around him, lingering, hovering much the same way it did around her or her Master—save that it was far Lighter than the Force as it lingered around her and certainly more so than around Vader. But that wasn’t what had truly caught her attention.

He hadn’t been Force-sensitive. Not like she was. Not like Vader was. Not like the Jedi used to be, either. She’d theorized from an early age that there was a spectrum of Force-sensitivity—it would explain why her Master was so much more powerful than she was, and not just because of experience. Looking back, she couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, the monk had been just below some important threshold of what it took to actually touch and manipulate the Force, yet had perhaps been just sensitive enough to perceive it in some small way anyway.

Either that, or his convictions were just that powerful…

But he hadn’t been a Force-user.

Of that she had been utterly certain.

It was baffling, though, how the Force had swirled around him almost as though he was, regardless of the fact that he couldn’t touch it, that he could never hope to actually use it. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it.

Just as she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around how he’d seemed to _know_ her.

The crystal collection convoy she’d been accompanying that day had been held up by a particularly dense crowd—not all that long before Gerrera’s rebels had descended, really—leaving Athara to wander in her impatience, her senses extended and probing as she wandered through the streets and alleyways along the route. Had it not been for the peculiar way the Force had lingered around the blind monk, she likely never would’ve given him a second glance. As it was, she would’ve moved on had he stayed silent, his peculiarity appearing at first like just one more of many that inhabited the Holy City.

But then he’d spoken up.

“The Dark Path is not the only Path.” Athara’s steps had faltered, his conversational tone easily reaching her over the din of the narrow street as she’d passed him. It had struck a chord in her, one that she still wasn’t sure, weeks later, that she was prepared to admit to.

Immediately, her reason had tried to brush the words aside, rationalizing that he was speaking to no one in particular, that her notice as he’d said it had been a matter of coincidence. But as she’d glanced over her shoulder to him, skepticism causing her to frown as she actually focused on him, he’d spoken again, and that time, there had been no mistaking he’d been speaking to her: “The Dark Path is not the only Path, My Lady—” _Obscura_. The name she was known by throughout the Galaxy hung in the air between them, the look on the blind man’s face as he tilted his head toward her indicating he knew very well that, had he said it, the street might very well have descended into chaos for fear of her. But nevertheless, that expression had revealed just as clearly that he’d _known_ her. Quite possibly better than she’d known herself…than she _knew_ herself.

And that realization still shook her.

Enough so that it had joined the mysterious comforting feeling as one of the scant few secrets Athara had resolved never to tell another living being about—including her Master.

Enough so that she’d buried it so deep, she’d almost allowed herself to believe it had never happened.

It was part of a small collection of incidents in her life that Athara had vowed to hide away in the depths of her mind—and in this case, try to forget—that had recently seen the addition of her disconcerting encounter with the Rebel woman on Eadu. And if that encounter hadn’t made what the monk had said on Jedha all those weeks ago resonate all the more…

No. No matter that a stinging shred of doubt in the Empire and her place in it had been nestled deep in her chest and deeper in her thoughts for longer than she cared to even dare admit, she would not allow a delusional Jedha priest and a nameless Rebel woman to feed it further. Athara knew her place and she knew her duty.

She was the Right Hand of the Emperor’s Right Hand. She was little more than Vader’s Shadow. The Dark Side was a part of her and she was content with that. It gave her strength, it gave her agency and it gave her purpose. It was because of the Dark Side, because of her Master, that she was who she was. That she was able to survive in Palpatine’s Galaxy.

And she would keep telling herself as much every time the memory of that encounter on Jedha re-emerged from the deepest, darkest corner of her mind that she repeatedly banished it to.

No matter that a small, secret part of her longed to believe he could very well be right.

The blind monk had certainly been assured that he was, having nodded once in satisfaction as he’d seemed to realize he’d caught her attention. Then he’d smiled in such a knowing way that she’d taken an inadvertent step toward him, the expression taunting her, causing the Dark Side to roil uncomfortably in the back of her mind even as curiosity urged her forward.

Oh, how part of her had wanted to know what knowledge lurked behind his mild smile…

…and how another part of her wanted to wipe that smirk away permanently.

“What did you say,” she had questioned, her voice low to keep from drawing attention to herself; she had enjoyed the anonymity of wandering the twisting alleys of Jedha alone, her dark cloak a means of blending in amid the hundreds of other cloaked and hooded figures in the Holy City. Eyes narrowed as she had given in and approached, she had reached out, falling back on her training to learn what she could of him, looking for answers she hadn’t entirely realized she had been searching for. But she hadn’t been able to get a read on the Jedhan man, the very Force itself seeming to gently repel her to her great surprise. All she had been able to discern was that he was far more than he’d appeared. The monk had merely smiled wider, giving her the impression that he’d known what she’d tried to do and that he’d found the attempt amusing. A scowl had risen to her face at that.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean, My Lady. You just haven’t allowed yourself to see it yet,” he had responded in a bright, knowing tone while the corners of his eyes had crinkled with delight.

And if that hadn’t piqued a sense of frustration to join her curiosity. She had been able to feel the Dark Side beginning to stir around her, woken by her inability to understand the man who’d caught her attention and the curiosity his words had kindled. It was only then that the smile had dimmed, the monk’s features growing thoughtful as he cocked his head faintly in consideration.

Determined to learn what was going on behind his sightless eyes, Athara had reached out again, but before she could press against the Monk’s thoughts, a faint flutter of warning in the Force alerted her that the monk hadn’t been alone.

It was then that she had truly paid attention to the second man skulking not far off from where she stood before the monk, half hidden in a shadowed alcove. He’d appeared like he was just another native of Jedha simply loitering about when she’d first come upon the blind man, so she’d paid him little mind at the time. But the deceptively casual way he held his repeating blaster and the wary, intent way he had been watching her exchange with the monk had made it quite plain they were companions.

Further, like the monk, the Force had lingered around the larger man as well, indicating that he had likely once been a Guardian himself. The fractured, frayed way it had tried to cling to him had betrayed as much.

Keeping her head immobile within her hood, she’d glanced over to the blind monk’s companion, allowing him the illusion of not yet being noticed for a moment longer. It was only when his hand had strayed too close to his repeating blaster’s trigger that she’d broken that illusion.

“If I were you, I’d want to keep my finger far away from that,” she’d spoken up conversationally, though there’d been an obvious thread of warning to her tone. The monk had all but smirked with apparent amusement as the larger man had hesitated, his finger instinctively tightening as his features had begun to crease with affronted indignation.

“And why would I want to do that,” he’d muttered gruffly. Athara had nearly smiled. With a simple, unobtrusive movement that had still managed to catch the larger man’s eye, her hand had risen even as the Force had answered Athara’s call.

With a single, easy flick of her fingertips, his index finger had been abruptly yanked away from the trigger, nearly bending backward. With a startled, yelping sort of grunt, his hand had jerked away from the blaster as well, instinctively following the invisible grip with its painful hold on his finger. Athara’s lip had quirked, grinning at the flustered and angry look he’d shot her way no matter that he hadn’t been able to see beneath her cowl. “Because I don’t think you want me to break your finger,” she’d said flippantly when she’d released the hold she had on him. The monk had laughed. Actually laughed. It had drawn a perplexed look from Athara and a freshly irritated and indignant expression from his companion.

“It’s okay, Baze,” the monk had finally said, a hand rising in a gesture meant to calm, words only halting his laugher when he’d seemed to sense his friend’s aggressive step forward, “though she looks to be an enemy, I get the feeling that she’s far more likely to be an ally. She does not belong with them, even if she does not know it yet.” Athara had finally frowned then, forcibly ignoring the flickering uncertainty that had tried to stir in her chest at the assured remark; that was when it had started, or really, that was when she’d first realized that small flicker of doubt had truly existed. But there was no way she had been about to admit as much, not to herself and certainly not to him. Not even now, weeks later. Instead, she’d let herself grow annoyed at the monk’s words.

“The Force may linger around you, but you cannot touch it, Monk. And you should take more care to guard your tongue,” she’d said quietly, the warning in her voice unmistakable that time. “I am not your ally, and you very much risk making me your enemy if you think such things and certainly when you say them. I could arrest you as a Jedi sympathizer. I could even kill you as such and no one would bat an eye be it from apathy or self-preservation.” To her great irritation and unease, he had simply smiled calmly in response, looking profoundly satisfied.

“But you won’t,” he had replied.

And she hadn’t. Rage had threatened to rear up in her chest, then, the Dark Side in her longing to make good on her threat just for the satisfaction of proving him wrong.

But the disquiet his words and his manner had woken had dampened her rage, her unease and uncertainty causing her to hesitate. “The satisfaction wouldn’t be worth the effort,” she’d drawled, having forced her tone to sound bored rather than flustered as she’d truly felt. A restless anxiety fluttering in her chest, she had shot the monk a final glare, utterly ignoring his companion, before leaving them with an irritated scoff to their meagre existences.

She hadn’t looked back. Refused to, in fact, not willing to spare them a second look. She hadn’t cared then that turning her back on them as she had would likely have been perceived as weakness or ineffectualness by any other Imperial. She’d just wanted to get away from them. She’d wanted to get away from the realization that the monk’s odd, knowing way had unsettled her; something she suspected had been his intent.

It was why she hadn’t allowed herself to think on it again and had buried the memory of the encounter away in the depths of her mind the way she had. Really, it was in all likelihood a factor she’d been refusing to consider in her overall poor opinion of her first trip to Jedha…it was certainly a factor in her strong desire to never return to the desert moon; she never wanted to encounter that monk and his impossible insight again.

And as Athara stared out the viewscreen of the Death Star’s Primary Command Centre at the wasteland that had once been Jedha, she at least had the small consolation that such a meeting was now impossible.

The Holy City hadn’t just been destroyed…it had been obliterated. Along with the surface of the moon.

There truly was nothing left on Jedha.

Nothing, save fire, ash and death.

No one could have survived.

And now that she had seen the Death Star’s capabilities with her own eyes?

For the first time since that day in the ancient city, Athara couldn’t help but genuinely wonder if there hadn’t been some truth to the blind monk’s words.


	9. Chapter 9

“Impressive, isn’t it.” Athara felt a prickling shudder run up her spin at the voice that always somehow managed to be smooth and grating at the same time.

She wasn’t quite sure just how long she’d been standing looking out over Jedha, lost in her thoughts as the thick clouds of ash, dust, fire and lightning seemed to ripple and undulate as it spread, seemingly driven by the debris raining back down from where it had been propelled into the upper atmosphere by the initial blast, completely obscuring whatever was left of the moon’s surface. Long enough that the dread and disbelief of what she was seeing had settled like a hard, churning mass in her gut.

But it wasn’t long enough to dim the horror at what she had been told was a grand achievement: the Death Star was operational…and it had proven as much by producing the wave of destruction below. Especially according to the gaunt man who had come to stand beside her. Steeling herself and firmly locking her true reaction away, she turned to Grand Moff Tarkin, thankful yet again that the shadow cast by her wide cowl was deep enough to hide the expression of distaste that had surely appeared on her face.

“There aren’t words,” she replied with as little intonation as possible. Were she to allow herself to be any more demonstrative, there would be no disguising how she really felt about the Grand Moff. Drawing power from passion was all well and good, but her Master had also long ago impressed upon her the importance of control…especially in Tarkin’s presence. And given that there had always been something about the gaunt-faced man that made her uneasy, maintaining her self-control was quite often rather difficult around him. And she had never found him more off-putting and repulsive than in that moment. He was so pleased with his new Battlestation and its capabilities, she could practically feel his anticipation and his delight skittering and itching across her skin.

He looked down at her with a mild expression of perplexity, his brow drawing together with it as he considered her opaque response in silence. But after a moment he spoke again, though he continued to study her openly, his eyes narrowed with consideration as he tried to figure her out. Athara ignored it. She could care less how he interpreted her reaction or her response. Instead, she returned her gaze to the devastation currently spreading across the surface of the moon below. The very crust of the moon seemed to be crumbling before the blast front, cracking and disintegrating before her very eyes like shards of pottery.

“I’ve never known you to put much stock in pretext, Lady Obscura. You’re much like your Master in that regard, so I will be direct.” She couldn’t help but bristle at the nearly sneering way the Grand Moff had said ‘ _your Master_ ’. But she managed to keep it to herself, knowing full well that he was baiting her in response to her lacklustre comment regarding his ‘pride and joy.’ His eyes narrowed when she didn’t react, but he continued regardless: “you are here to confirm the viability of the Death Star’s primary weapon for Lord Vader.” As he was correct, Athara saw no need to provide confirmation. He was always one to enjoying hearing himself speak, so who was she to interrupt with something so banal as verification or agreement. “In that I can assure you there is no longer any doubt.” He paused for dramatic effect, gesturing out beyond the viewscreen to the scene Athara had been effectively unable to pull her eyes from.

Down below them, the ash and debris cloud continued to spread. Unless she was very much mistaken—which she grimly suspected she was not—more than half the moon would be engulfed by the blast cloud in a matter of hours; the whole of it in a matter of days. She couldn’t even fathom what it must be like down on the moon; to feel the ground shuddering and collapsing beneath one’s feet, seeing the cloud’s approach—a veritable wall of rock and ash and fire—knowing escape was impossible. Nothing would survive.

Nothing _could_ survive.

They might as well have just destroyed the moon outright, for all that would be left once the dust had settled…

“As you can see, the efficacy of the Superlaser cannot be questioned. What you see before you is the result of a single reactor ignition.” Athara could feel the blood drain from her face at the declaration even as her breath seemed to seize in her chest. She’d put together for herself that, since the moon as an entity in Space still existed and she’d sensed only feelings of triumph and accomplishment aboard the Battlestation when she’d arrived, the full complement of reactors hadn’t been employed for the test. But only a single one? Her stomach churned at the implications, the room feeling like the air was being sucked out of it.

But somehow, outwardly, she gave no reaction…not that her features were visible for Tarkin to interpret no matter that he’d turned to eye her critically, gauging her reaction to the information. After a moment he seemed to reach some sort of conclusion and returned his view to the remnants of Jedha. It was a testament to Athara’s preoccupation—or perhaps her apathy at the moment—that she didn’t even care to try and discern what he’d managed to glean of her reaction—or lack thereof—to his words.

“Our patience has paid off,” the Grand Moff finished with a quiet hum of pride. It was only then that Athara glanced over to him. Though she had never seen a _true_ smile from the man—just the idea of him actually smiling spawned an unsettling mental image—she imagined the expression he bore now was the closest his grim features ever got to one. The curving line of his mouth was less severe than she’d ever seen it and his usually hard gaze was perilously close to being soft. It was unnerving, really…even his condescending ‘smiles’, if they could be called that, looked more like grimaces…

“Don’t be so modest, Governor,” she couldn’t help but reply, somehow managing a civil tone over the rather caustic one she’d very nearly let slip…though either would’ve been acceptable to the wavering one she’d feared would escape once she’d started talking, “I wouldn’t doubt that it’s all thanks to your persistence.” His eyes narrowed as they turned back to her, obviously weighing her words carefully to discern if she were being genuine or if she were taunting him. She simply smiled blandly back—not that he could see it. She pressed on, ignoring the way his cool gaze was slowly turning to a piercing glare. “I’m sure my Master will be most fascinated to hear the results of your test.”

The corner of Tarkin’s mouth pulled back in what was likely intended to be a courteous smirk, but it came across as more of a sneer in Athara’s opinion. He nodded again, his tone once again his approximation of pleasant.

“I’m sure,” he agreed tightly, “and I imagine, then, that you’ll wish to contact him now that you’ve seen the evidence this Battlestation’s immense potential.” He turned, gesturing impatiently to one of the officers lingering near the back of the Command Centre. Athara’s lips thinned at what she suspected was about to be a dismissal. Not that she wanted to stay in the overbridge any longer than was necessary, but she did not appreciate the idea that Tarkin thought he could just ‘wave her away’ like she was a child that had been indulged but was now in the way. Her eyes narrowed as he again turned back to her, his mouth twisted into one of his grimace-like attempts at a smile, the effect further hampered by its evident lack of conviction.

“Quarters have been set aside for you, my dear Obscura. I will have someone show you the way,” Tarkin said in a manner that could only be considered mocking for all its affected graciousness. “I find they are quite well suited for private communications, so I’m sure you’ll find them more than adequate to contact Lord Vader.” Athara’s jaw was wrenched so tight it was painful, her teeth grinding with rage at his patronizing tone and insultingly dismissive demeanour. He wasn’t even trying to disguise it with civility or feigned politeness!

He was so lucky he was the Emperor’s favourite…

But she kept her reaction to herself, keeping her face a blank mask beneath her cowl and her voice steady as she thanked Tarkin like he’d been of great service. After all, he was trying to rile her up. That much was blatantly obvious. She knew it without even needing to rely on the Force to tell her as much. He was toying with her and, though she had only truly encountered him a handful of times in her life, she knew for a fact that reacting would only serve to satisfy the man.

So she took what pleasure she could in the way his already thin lips thinned further with annoyance and contempt when she failed to react to his less-than-subtle needling.

Then, without another word to the Grand Moff, she was striding from the Command Centre with all the self-possession and dignity she could manage, smirking happily at the surge of anger and resentment she sensed from Tarkin as the door hissed shut behind her.

No sooner was she striding down the corridor from the Command Centre than she was demanding the location of her quarters from officer assigned to show her away, dismissing him with an impatient wave after he happily complied. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with people right now, much less a jumpy, sycophantic officer who couldn’t decide whether to admire or fear her. She was far too distracted in that moment and her patience worn far too thin to even contemplate it.

Instead, she flagged down a passing mouse droid as soon as she reached the main corridor off the overbridge access hall, instructing it of her destination and following the chirpy little box-on-wheels as it eagerly complied.

Distantly, she knew she should be paying attention, learning what she could of the Battlestation as she went, but she wasn’t interested in doing so just then. The reality of her location and the capabilities of the weapon whose halls she now walked were overpowering in their ability to occupy her thoughts. The more she turned over what she’d seen and what Tarkin had said in her head, the more anxious she grew to pass on what she had discovered to her Master.

Thankfully, the droid’s route was direct and soon enough Athara was dismissing the keen little thing and entering the chambers assigned to her.

As soon as the door hissed shut, she was leaning back against it as her legs suddenly trembled beneath her, her head falling to her hands as the weight of what she had to report to her Master proving far heavier than she could have expected upon her departure from Mustafar. It was a struggle for a few moments to even convince herself to breathe properly, forcing slow, measured breaths in and out of her lungs as she wrestled her thoughts back into some semblance of order.

She couldn’t unsee the blast cloud as it spread, silent flashes of lightning blinking in blue-white bursts amid the thick layer of dust and shattered rock as Jedha died beneath it.

A single reactor ignition?! It was unfathomable the devastation it had caused.

But she couldn’t afford to wallow in her shock and disbelief. Her duty was to report her findings to her Master, so report them she must.

Now it was just a matter of finding the right words…

With a groan she was straightening, forcing her emotions back under some measure of control as she paced forward to the communications console in the vestibule that separated the entrance to her chambers from the private rooms. In moments she had activated the station and after a few more the secure connection was initializing. All it took was a few identification and verification codes and few clipped orders and she was patched through to her Master’s chambers within his Fortress. A few moments more and he was accepting the communication; those moments seemed to drag on forever to Athara.

“I take it you have news about Jedha, my apprentice.” Athara’s nose wrinkled in the antithesis of amusement as Tarkin’s observation about her Master having no patience for pretext came immediately to mind as her Master bypassed any sort of greeting altogether…as was usual. But she forced the thought aside quickly enough; her thoughts were already chaotic enough without throwing in reminders of the Grand Moff’s remarks. Instead she forced in a deep breath, schooling her features as she lowered her hood, the action giving herself a measure of time to organize her thoughts. As she looked to the projection of her Master, she settled on the approach he was likely to appreciate the most: blunt and to the point.

“It’s gone, Master. Jedha City—it’s been obliterated. And—” she couldn’t help the way she hesitated, her breath hitching as the memory of the moon’s surface and Tarkin’s pleased voice hissing next to her reasserted itself, “and it was only a single reactor used to fire. The moon itself, it’s—it’s still intact but…Master, it may not have been destroyed, but Jedha’s been devastated. The damage from the Death Star’s weapon was so catastrophic to the moon’s surface that it may as well have been destroyed.” It was a true testament to how deeply she trusted her Master that her voice wavered as she spoke, laying bare just how shaken she was by the development she’d discovered above the—once—desert moon.

“So it is operational,” Vader confirmed quietly after a long moment. Athara merely nodded, fisting her fingers as she realized her hands were beginning to tremble as that simple fact continued to sink in.

“Mildly put,” she murmured in response, but he didn’t seem to hear her, his mask tilting away slightly as he sunk into thought, the sound of his respirator the only sound between them. It was hard to gauge just what her Master was thinking. He was far too far away to get a real read on his emotions through the Force, leaving Athara to rely on interpreting his body language alone; obviously reading his features was out of the question. The tension across his frame had increased minutely as she’d relayed her findings, and that alone indicated his own unease solidifying from the vague inclination toward it he’d had after encountering Krennic. Had it been anyone else but her, it likely wouldn’t have been picked up on. But Athara knew her Master well. This development worried him.

“The Emperor will be pleased,” he finally said, breaking the silence. It was said distantly enough that Athara understood it was an absent thought said aloud. Nevertheless, she nodded in agreement.

“Just as Tarkin is,” she added, “he’s practically jubilant.” There was no hiding the distaste in her tone, causing Vader to glance back at her in a way that Athara knew would be a mild expression of admonishment were she able to see his face or even sense what he was feeling. She met his gaze, though, unapologetic. Tarkin was jubilant. She wasn’t about to apologize in this instance for relating the truth.

“Careful, my young apprentice, that you—” But he didn’t get to finish his cautionary rebuke, a faint tone on his end indicating he was being contacted on one of the Fortress’ internal comm channels. Letting out a silent sigh, Athara waited patiently as one of the Fortress’ commanders relayed his message, his voice not quite loud enough to carry over to the channel Athara was on. Finally, Vader’s head dipped slightly in a faint, unconscious gesture of understanding before passing along orders, his voice abrupt and harsh. It startled Athara; he sounded angry.

“Contact the _Devastator_. It is to return at once. Have my shuttle prepared to depart immediately upon its arrival and inform me as soon as it enters the system.” Faintly she heard the murmur that indicated the Commander’s acknowledgement before the connection was undoubtedly terminated. Though there was no change to the rhythm from his respirator, the movement of his shoulders suggested her Master sighed heavily as the Commander disconnected. Athara frowned, her curiosity about just what could have been in the message to cause her Master to momentarily disregard the troubling developments on and above Jedha.

Surely it couldn’t be so important in the face of the fact that the Emperor’s planet-killer was much more devastating than expected!

Though…if he was recalling the _Devastator_ …and given the sharpness of his tone even despite the limitations of his vocorder…she pushed the thought aside, even going so far to physically shake the thought free from her head. Her focus right now was on Jedha and the Death Star on his orders, so that was where she was intent on keeping her focus.

“Master, about Jedha—”

“It is of little consequence just now, my young apprentice.” She was taken aback at how brusquely he cut her off, something he noticed, causing him to temper his tone as he continued. “We’ve just received a communication from the Death Star and a distress call from Scarif immediately before that. The installation there is under attack, presumably by Rebel forces.” Athara’s mind was abruptly whirring even as the Force rippled with a peculiar mix of foreboding and unsettled anticipation. Her stomach dropped as the realization hit her. She’d been wrong; this news was more troubling than the Death Star’s capabilities just then.

“They’re after the Plans…” Her Master’s head dipped in the closest approximation to a nod he was capable of.

“It is the logical explanation,” he agreed. Athara nearly growled to herself in frustration at not seeing it sooner as the pieces seemed to just keep slipping into place. If it was Rebels attacking the Scarif Base? Considering the particular kind of data stored in the Citadel Tower there?

“Galen Erso’s message must have contained more than just warning about the Death Star. It must also have included instruction for retrieving the Plans.” Her voice was rife with angry realization, but she honestly couldn’t have cared less in that moment. She suspected that, were she in the same room as her Master, she’d be sensing something similar from him. Again, a slight nod prefaced her Master’s response, indicating he had come to the same conclusion. But before he could respond, a peculiar sensation vibrated up through the soles of Athara’s boots. Noticing her sudden distraction, Vader paused. It was different than anything she’d felt on any other ship she’d been on, but it still only took an instant for Athara to figure out what had caused it, especially when an unmistakable and distantly familiar shudder went through the Battlestation.

“Master, the Death Star has jumped to hyperspace.” Vader straightened at her declaration, his right hand fisting in a gesture Athara immediately recognized as a signal that his temper was growing.

“It would seem Grand Moff Tarkin has recognized the threat the Rebels pose on Scarif just as we have. Keep a close eye on him, my apprentice. If he is as eager as you say, which I have little doubt, he may take matters into his own hands.” Nodding her understanding, Athara was quick to assure him she’d do as he instructed before severing the connection. Almost immediately the tremulous, troubled feeling seeing the remnants of Jedha had ignited reemerged in the pit of her stomach at the uncertainty of what Tarkin could possibly be intending to do once they reached Scarif.

With a practiced gesture, her hood was back in place and Athara was on route back to the overbridge.


	10. Chapter 10

It was with a wary sense of caution that Athara made her way back into the Command Centre not long after concluding her conversation with her Master. As she anticipated, the overbridge practically bustled with activity as compared to how it had been when she’d first stepped across the threshold when she’d arrived on the Battlestation. Not that that was saying much. Considering the size of the room as compared to the number of people in it—not to mention the dim lighting that made it feel nearly cavernous—it still appeared virtually empty.

Unlike before, though, the handful of officers in the overbridge moved with purpose instead of waiting idly for some sort of task to become apparent, while the technicians scattered around seemed to be actively monitoring systems instead of simply sitting and staring at their consoles trying to appear engaged.

Tarkin, of course, seemed like he hadn’t moved since she’d left, still standing before the primary viewscreen which currently displayed a readout denoting the distance and time left until they reached their destination. All this Athara took in without pausing, her strides purposeful as she crossed into the Command Centre and headed for the spot she’d occupied when the Grand Moff had been regaling her with news about the Battlestation’s successful test.

“On to Scarif, I take it?” At the sound of her voice, Tarkin turned, his face impassive save for a faint narrowing of his eyes as she came to a stop beside him. He seemed almost disappointed that she knew already. After a moment his chin dipped in the barest of confirming nods as he turned back to the main viewscreen.

“I see Lord Vader has informed you of the situation.” Athara grit her teeth at the dismissive tone. In response she similarly nodded her head, the gesture exaggerated enough that her deep hood echoed the movement.

“Naturally,” was all she said in reply, gratified yet again that her less than verbose confirmation irritated him just as much as his condescension annoyed her. It made her feel marginally better, and if a measure of pettiness helped her function like she wasn’t affected by what she’d seen over Jedha, she was willing to take it. It was a mere bonus that the frustration Tarkin spurred in her helped her shove her uneasiness over the Battlestation aside.

Unable to help the grin fighting to curl her lip, Athara turned her attention to the readout currently projecting on the viewscreen. As she glanced over the display, processing exactly what it meant, her amusement began to fade, her grin turning to an incredulous frown. She’d expected as much from her briefings, but the reality? She couldn’t hold her reaction in.

“For all that it is to be the crowning jewel in the Emperor’s vision for the Imperial Military, one would have expected the Death Star to be capable of moving a little faster,” she bit out dryly. Next to her Tarkin stiffened and a wave of indignation rolled off him.

There…her amused grin was back.

“Speed is not everything, Lady Obscura,” the Grand Moff sneered back, his eyes glinting beneath his narrowed lids, “but never fear; it is more than fast enough to get us to Scarif in plenty of time to deal with the Rebel incursion.” A noncommittal sound hummed from Athara’s throat. No matter the temptation to needle him further, she was perceptive enough to know when enough was enough. His lip still twisted in a sneer, Tarkin turned back to the viewscreen, obviously content to ignore Athara’s presence for the time being.

Athara, however, was in no mood to stare blankly at a screen for the remaining time left in the hyperspace jump even if her continued presence would serve to prick Tarkin’s patience. Without a word to the Grand Moff, she turned on her heel and exited the Command Centre, pausing only to leave instruction with one of the officers to contact her on her personal comlink when the Battlestation was preparing to drop out of hyperspace.

Though she briefly considered returning to her quarters to meditate or run through her exercises in attempt to work through her frustration from dealing with Tarkin and her unease at the fate of Jedha, she ultimately dismissed the option. Now was not the time for it. Her Tarkin-inspired frustration was doing well enough at keeping her troubled Jedha-inspired thoughts in check and dwelling on either would only disrupt that.

Besides, there was nothing to be done for it. Dealing with Tarkin was unavoidable, and thus something she’d learned to deal with years ago. Jedha was gone, so what point was there in dwelling on it? And the Death Star’s weapon—which she knew was what lay at the heart of her unease—was beyond her influence; it was under Tarkin’s control, now. It was something she knew she was going to have to resign herself to accepting, no matter that the near blithe use of such a devastating weapon troubled her greatly. It was now a reality of the Galaxy she lived in, so she would have to learn to live with it just as she had with the slimy Grand Moff commanding it. And now was a good time to start. So she pushed her unease aside, burying it deep, determined not to dwell on it anymore.

Dwelling would do her little good, anyway. It would only stoke her temper and strain her control, and she could not afford to be that careless.

The stakes were far too high.

But then, they were always high.

As there was little else in the way of options to occupy her time, she finally settled for familiarizing herself with the Death Star’s halls, matching reality to the schematics she’d been required to memorize during the briefings months earlier.

Athara’s prediction that she’d have little trouble finding her way around the Death Star despite having never set foot on it before proved perfectly accurate. Not only did it conform to the Imperial Military Standard, as it were, there were helpful—if sometimes redundant—schematics and directional signs posted at semi-regular intervals to assist, as well as ever present and helpful mouse droids programmed specifically to act as guides around the Battlestation.

So she spent the (painfully long) hyperspace jump effectively exploring the Battlestation, all the while keeping her absent thoughts occupied with all the unpleasant things she’d rather be doing to Tarkin.

Though, a few ideas for tormenting Krennic edged their way in as well…not that she minded overmuch. Krennic was on Scarif, after all; precisely where they were headed to engage in and quell an alleged all-out Rebel incursion on the archive planet. And if that didn’t further enforce the opinion she had that Director Krennic was very, very much ill-suited to a military command...

She very much doubted his command would last out the day, one way or another. He might very well have committed his last mistake. She honestly couldn’t see her Master overlooking a full-scale Rebel incursion—an attack—a second time under the Director’s watch; if Krennic had been one of her Master’s subordinates, she very much doubted he would have even survived long enough to allow opportunity for a second. In that, there was no doubt of her Master’s exacting standards or his ruthless response when his officers fell short of them.

No, Krennic would be held to account for this mess. There was little doubt that this incursion could be anything but a result of the events Galen Erso’s defection had put in motion…and Krennic was responsible for Erso’s appointment in the first place, not to mention his superior for the better part of the last twenty years… And though Athara generally had little enthusiasm for such things—she viewed killing and the like as necessary tasks to be carried out rather than pleasure—she was actually rather hoping in this case that the meting out of Krennic’s punishment would fall to her…she couldn’t imagine her Master would be opposed to her taking matters into her own hands when it came to the Director.

And depending on the state of things when they arrived on Scarif? She couldn’t even say she believed Tarkin would be opposed to the idea either; she did, after all, suspect the Grand Moff had only ever tolerated the Director because he’d been considered necessary to the Death Star’s construction. As odd as it felt to consider, once the situation was back under control on Scarif, Tarkin would likely be aligned with Athara and her Master in regard to dealing with Krennic and his failure.

But first the situation on Scarif had to be dealt with.

Very little in the way of information was available about the state of things on the tropical planet. Early on in her wanderings, Athara had taken a few moments to find a secure console from which to pull up and read over the distress communiqués from the archive planet, her Master’s long-ingrained teachings and discipline urging her to keep herself informed.

There hadn’t been much.

The long and short of it had been that an indeterminate number of Rebel ground forces had infiltrated the base and were storming the beach, presumably in an effort to reach the Citadel. Foolish, really.

Though the shield-gate was the primary line of defense for the base, it wasn’t the only obstacle the Rebels would have to overcome to get their hands on the Death Star Plans. Even with the substandard commanders—little more than glorified librarians, in some cases, thanks to the overconfidence the shield-gate engendered—in charge of the base and the less than noteworthy troops garrisoned there, the Citadel was more than equipped to stave off, even subdue any attempt to storm it from the ground if handled properly. Had the Rebels on the beaches had air support or even a capital ship or two to back them up? It might be a different story. But the report made no mention of any additional Rebel forces save the estimates of anywhere from fifty to a hundred guerilla troops on the ground.

Yet, there was something about this attack that didn’t quite sit right with Athara.

If the Rebels were there on Erso’s tip, he had to have warned them about the base’s defenses. Force, it wasn’t even a secret base! It could arguably be common knowledge that the Data Vault had some of the best defenses of any base in the Empire. As ill-conceived as the Rebel’s attack appeared to be, the fact that they had made it past the shield-gate in the first place indicated to her that this was more than a blundering assault on the part of the Rebellion. And that was worrisome.

Especially if the Death Star did somehow manage to reach the tropical planet before her Master did.

The Death Star wasn’t outfitted for a full-scale engagement yet. It had only the most basic of maiden crews—and that was mostly academy dregs left over from the construction compliment on top of the command crew and weapon operations staff, rather than a fully-fledged, battle-ready deployment of personnel—and minimal support, be it TIE squadrons or otherwise. Officially, construction wasn’t even complete even if the work was technically done and the Superlaser operational. There was next to nothing to deploy once they got to Scarif besides—and then it hit her, and dread dropped like a chilled stone in Athara’s gut.

She desperately hoped she was wrong.

Almost on cue, her personal comlink beeped, indicating that the Death Star was preparing to drop out of hyperspace. Pushing her disturbing suspicions aside, she immediately turned and headed directly for the overbridge.

In minutes she was yet again entering the Command Centre, her steps brisk with an agitation she couldn’t quite manage to tamp down as she once again moved to stand next to Governor Tarkin. The atmosphere had changed yet again since her last departure from the overbridge. There was a tension in the air as the command crew made the necessary preparations to drop back into realspace—quite the undertaking for a vessel as massive as the Death Star, to be sure. No one was quite sure what they were arriving to find. Ideally, the Rebel incursion would be well in hand.

But Athara couldn’t help but wonder cynically when anything was ever ideal when it came to dealings with the Rebellion. The idealistic but militant movement had stuck to the shadows until now; this attack on the archive planet, no matter how ill-conceived, was a still a significant move on their part. It indicated that they had grown bold enough—or desperate enough—for them to participate in all-out military engagements.

Well, a defeat here would certainly do a great deal to curb their slowly growing movement. A defeat on Scarif would go a long way to quashing the Rebellion for good.

With a rumbling shudder, the Death Star dropped out of hyperspace over Scarif.

Athara’s stomach plummeted, clenching as it went even as her jaw dropped as she looked out at the scene before her.

It was a disaster.

It wasn’t just a minor incursion on the planet’s surface.

It was an all out battle.

And by the look of it, the Imperial forces were losing. Badly.

Almost involuntarily, a muttered curse fell from Athara’s lips.

This was very bad.

The two Star Destroyers stationed above the planet were just short of utterly demolished, one appearing nearly cloven in half and the other having fallen to smash the shield-gate into nothing more than ragged clusters of debris. The shield itself was pulsating and flickering wildly from the pressure of the massive ship disintegrating against it, before finally collapsing completely before their eyes in a bright, wave-like nimbus. The TIE squadrons were in disarray and the dozen or so larger Rebel ships—including a massive Mon Calamari star cruiser she assumed was the flagship that dwarfed its fellows—and their complement of smaller vessels and fighters were slowly turning the engagement into a rout.

This was incomprehensible.

Quickly enough, her disbelief turned to rage.

“Incompetent fools—” but her disparaging hiss was cut off with, of all things, a sound of agreement from the Grand Moff standing stiffly to her right.

“Indeed, Obscura. For once, it would seem we are in agreement,” Tarkin said quietly, his voice solemn and tinted with disdain.

If that didn’t make her feel dirty…

With a snarl that she couldn’t manage to withhold, she was turning and snapping out for her shuttle to be prepared and an immediate inventory taken on what Imperial assets remained from Scarif’s defenses. Glancing back to the viewscreen and the disaster beyond for a final look she turned to depart, only to just barely avoid being hit by General Romodi’s retreating form as he moved to act on whatever murmured order he’d just received from Tarkin. But she froze as Tarkin spoke up, his tone disconcertingly calm as he tilted his head toward her, not looking away from the planet below and the Rebel ships ranged before them.

“Might I ask what it is you intend to do, Lady Obscura?” he asked softly, his voice not carrying past her. If she’d had them, there was little doubt her hackles would’ve been raised at the coolly condescending question. As it was, her jaw was grinding with angry indignation as she fought to rein in her temper before turning slowly back to the Grand Moff, not bothering to restrain the ire sharpening her tongue.

“I intend to take command of what’s left of our forces to try and salvage this situation and clean up this mess; as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Governor, Scarif’s Admirals have proven themselves to be grossly incompetent.” His hands still clasped stoically behind his back, Tarkin nodded in a way that could almost be considered deferential, save for the hard, delighted glint in his eyes. It was enough to put Athara immediately on edge, her vehemence to take charge dampened by the clenching sense of foreboding suddenly closing around her chest at the cruel vindication she suddenly sensed rising up in the Grand Moff.

“Surely that can wait for Lord Vader’s arrival, imminent as it likely is. Wouldn’t you rather see the capabilities of this Battlestation for yourself?” The sense of foreboding tightening around her chest suddenly grew chilled, sending a frightened shiver through her body at the words. She couldn’t look away from the Grand Moff as he dispassionately gave to order to fire, horror fighting to grow in her chest, trying to burst past the ominous feeling of dread that kept her from drawing breath.

Only when the Battlestation hummed to life beneath her feel, the Superlaser powering up deep within the moon-like colossus, was Athara’s gaze drawn to the viewscreen.

The Command Centre was silent as the Superlaser unleashed its deadly payload, the vibrant green bolt slamming into the planet.

Athara could only watch as a blast unlike anything she’d ever seen burst in an awesome, nebulous eruption near the coordinates of the Citadel.

And as the viewscreen dimmed to compensate for the blinding intensity of the blast, her horror was so great that Athara felt nothing.


	11. Chapter 11

Athara had to remind herself to breathe, forcing breath after breath into lungs that suddenly felt crushed. The ripples the blast had sent through the Force were staggering and it took a surprising amount of willpower to keep herself from sagging beneath the sensation. But she wouldn’t allow herself to react outwardly. She couldn’t. Not in her current company. As the Force calmed around her, Athara was able to reach out again to take stock of her surroundings. Only to recoil as her consciousness brushed up against Tarkin’s.

There were no words for the level of pride and delighted vindication surging through the gaunt-faced man.

Behind them a technician was apprising them of the Death Star’s performance, but Athara barely heard a word. She didn’t care about whether or not it had performed within the expected parameters or whether output was consistent or whatever other such nonsense the man was rattling off. She was transfixed by the sight below—the blast front possessing a terrible beauty that she couldn’t manage to look away from—still struggling to rein back her horror at what she was seeing and her rage at the man standing smugly beside her.

It was then that another technician—or was it an officer; she couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to that detail—informed them that the Rebel ships were beginning to jump to hyperspace. At that exclamation her rage deepened, and her gaze snapped darkly to the Grand Moff to her right. He merely turned an ambivalent glance and dismissing gesture in the direction of the officer before resuming his study of the blast front as it scoured across the planet’s surface.

He didn’t care. He’d gotten to unleash his new weapon. Anything else was secondary to him.

It was very nearly too much for her, her seething anger beginning to spiral even as her fist began to tighten beneath the folds of her cloak, the Dark Side humming around her. Tarkin’s brow twitched, a faint perplexed look tightening his features. She knew she was getting perilously close to doing something she would probably regret, but Athara couldn’t think of a reason in that moment not to do it…

Until one of the other officers called out that another ship was emerging from hyperspace.

She didn’t need him to say what it was or who it carried. She didn’t need the officer to say another word.

She knew who it was.

Without another word she was striding from the overbridge. She only paused on the way to her shuttle to commandeer a squad of Stormtroopers to fill out her compliment beyond the honour guard that had accompanied her to Jedha.

Thankfully, she had managed to get her temper back under control by the time she reached the hangar. As she informed her pilot to take off with the intent to rendezvous with the _Devastator_ , the only sharpness left in her voice was from her impatience.

As her ship was manoeuvring out of the hangar bay, the co-pilot was ducking out of the cockpit to inform her that the _Devastator_ had made contact and had relayed that Lord Vader was heading a boarding party set to take the Rebel flagship, the massive Mon Calamari cruiser having been disabled by a concerted attack by the Sith Lord’s Star Destroyer. She had expected as much, having sensed her Master’s intent even as she’d been making her way to her shuttle moments before: hence her commandeering of the set of Death Star Stormtroopers.

It was only natural that she instructed her pilot to coordinate with her Master’s shuttle and support his efforts with an assault of her own.

So it was that she soon found herself storming the Rebel flagship with instruction to secure the bridge, her handful of loyal Stormtroopers at her back and an array of troopers appropriated from Death Star fanning out behind them.

She was utterly appalled, really. The Death Star Stormtroopers she had enlisted to accompany her to the Rebel flagship weren’t able to hit the broad side of a Sandcrawler. No sooner had the Rebels started fighting back then Athara was wishing she had some more of her own or her Master’s troopers at her disposal beyond the handful that had accompanied her to the Death Star…at least they had experience and discipline on their side. And decent marksmanship…

It didn’t help that the Rebels knew their ship was lost. She could sense it in their desperation and their conviction to fight to the last. It made for a bitter fight, that was for certain.

But there was more to it than just desperation; there was an urgency in the air that left her perplexed. It was only when one of her troopers passed along a message from her Master’s Stormtroopers that they had taken the communications centre of the ship that she started to clue in to what was happening, especially given that the bridge hadn’t even been secured yet. That her Master considered the communications array the priority over the bridge? All it took were a few quick instructions to her squad commander and a brief exchange between him and his counterpart among Vader’s men and Athara’s suspicions were confirmed.

The Rebels had gotten their hands on the Death Star Plans. And they were on this ship.

The desperation fuelling the Rebel suddenly found a home in Athara’s chest.

With a few snapped orders and sharp gestures, her troopers swept ahead of her, securing the final corridor that held the turbolift access to the cruiser’s command bridge.

It was a stroke of luck indeed that her troopers were able to secure the command pod turbolifts before the Rebels had a chance to disable it. As the first batch of her troopers descended—three of her personal guard and the rest filler from the Death Star contingent—Athara took a moment to centre herself for the final impending offensive, reaching out as she did so to check in with her Master. It was easy enough to locate him. The Darkness that convalesced around him was the antithesis of a beacon, a dark stain near the heart of the ship. He paid little mind  to the brush of her consciousness against his, his focus wholly on whatever objective he was set on.

But before she could reach out further to discern his intent, the second lift was hissing open and Athara and the second group of troopers were filing in; the third and last set were waiting with poorly masked impatience for the first car to return.

Soon enough she was exiting the lift into the pod-like structure that held the command bridge of the Rebel ship. Already her first batch of troopers were sweeping ahead, clearing what little resistance was to be had and clearing the way for her to proceed directly to the bridge itself. With a sedately satisfied smile, Athara stepped into the dying fray, striding past the odd fallen Rebel along the blaster-scorched corridor that led from the turbolifts to the bridge.

Just as she turned the final corner that brought the bridge itself into view, the blastdoors ahead began to inch closed, hiding the fear she felt wash through the Rebel command crew. Their last glimpse of the hall before the doors slid shut was of her ominous cloaked figure appearing amid a gauntlet of smoke, Stormtroopers and blasterfire.

As she came to a stop before the thick blastdoors guarding the command bridge, Athara briefly considered activating the lightsaber already waiting in her hand. A small part of her exalted at the fear watching her cutting through their last defense would bring the Rebels on the other side. But it would also be a messy, inelegant course of action. Besides, she considered, there was a possibility that, given that they were genuine blastdoors and likely shielded in someway in addition to being correspondingly thick—especially given the peculiar vulnerability of the bridge’s location in relation to the bulk of the ship itself—it would take far too long to simply cut through them, even with a lightsaber.

No. She had a much better idea. One that she suspected would be just as unsettling to the Rebels as well as being more efficient than crudely cutting through the doors.

As her troopers worked to finish clearing the corridor, the blasterfire still screaming periodically around her as the stinging scent of burning plasteel and acrid one of charred flesh flooded the hallway, Athara’s eyes slipped shut as she raised her hand.

Palm flat and fingers splayed and hovering little more than an inch from the hub-like centre of the doors, she called on the Force, the rage and helpless frustration she’d been pushing away since that awful moment on the Death Star surging forward to fuel the Dark Side as she bent it to her will.

And channelled it directly into the blastdoors’ locking mechanisms.

The Dark Side of the Force poured through her body and down her hand where she set it to work on opening the sealed door. Everything around her seemed to fade as she concentrated, using the Force to manipulate the mechanisms and bypass the electronics, her only movement the occasional rotation of her wrist, as though her flattened hand were influencing a large, invisible dial.

With a clank and a reluctant groan, the doors disengaged with a final, calculated turn of Athara’s wrist. At her silent, mental command, the doors eased apart.

As her gleaming, yellowed eyes opened to take in the Mon Calamari crew watching in horror as she was revealed, hooded and ominously still with the Dark Side radiating from her slight form, Athara loosed her mental grip on the doors, her hand falling slowly back to her side. The Darkness within her seemed to tremble as it sensed imminent death in the air.

She pushed it aside. She didn't need it to complete her mission. She did not revel in death.

With a handful of measured steps, Athara entered the bridge, her troopers filing in behind her. Not one of them bothered to raise their blasters, not without her command. Directly ahead, an old Mon Calamari—Admiral Raddus, if Athara remembered correctly from their intelligence on the Rebel Commanders; the Admiral of the Rebel Fleet—sat in his suspended command chair, chin high and eyes fixed challengingly on her. This was a male unafraid of what she was about to do, she realized with an odd sort of twist in her stomach, a male who knew his death would not be in vain, who knew the fight would go on thanks to his actions.

A male who, somehow, knew the Rebellion had won a victory today and was proud of that, even knowing that the price was his ship and his life.

But Athara pushed it aside, unable to allow the distraction the seditious admiration that realization sparked in the recesses of her mind.

Instead, she focused on her mission and what she knew her Master expected of her as she faced what she knew was about to happen. What had to happen.

With a snap-hiss, Athara’s blood-hued lightsaber hummed to life in her hand. Around her, her troopers finally raised their blasters.

And without hesitation, she stepped forward.

It was over in moments.

And when it was, Athara indisputably had control of the Bridge.

But even as she was giving the order for her squad commander to alert her Master, he was turning to her, a sense of urgency bleeding from him as he in turn relayed a message from Vader’s contingent.

“Ma’am! Several Rebels have managed to reach a shuttle and evade Lord Vader’s forces.” As he spoke she was anxiously gesturing her troopers to the different consoles scattered around the bridge. Another of her troopers unceremoniously shoved the lifeless form of a Rebel officer aside before adding his own urgent report: “systems show the tractor beam projectors are inoperable.” It was a development of little consequence to her; Athara had little interest in capturing the diminutive ship. Not when she knew in her gut what was on it.

“Weapons!”

“Weapons systems are still online!” another bellowed out in response to her sharp demand. Now that was of interest to her.

Even as the shuttle was darting away, Athara was snapping out orders to open fire, to take it out, only to stop mid-sentence as yet another troopers gave a shout.

“There’s a transmission signal coming from the shuttle!”

“Jam their transmissions, now!” There was no hiding the angry, nearly desperate snap in her tone. Out beyond the Rebel ship they’d stood on, Athara watched with a growing sense of unease as the shuttle was barely managing to evade the blasterfire that was intended to destroy it.

But all it took was one hit.

In a fiery cascade, the shuttle was no more and Athara felt the breath that had been trapped anxiously in her chest release.

But the trooper standing before the comm station turned to her slowly even as it did, anxiety suddenly radiating off him in waves.

She knew before he even spoke.

“It—it was too late, My Lady. The transmission completed just as the shuttle…” Through the viewscreen the shuttle’s remnants had already vanished amid the darkness of space as the console near the trooper softly beeped out its confirmation of his words. Rage and, bewilderingly, a faint mix of unease and foreboding washed through her even as the trooper’s nervous voice trailed off. Odder still, a minute, treacherous flicker of approval bubbled up in her chest to join her mounting fury.

A wet snap echoed through the silent bridge and the trooper collapsed in a boneless heap. Slowly lowering her fisted hand and releasing her Force-grip, Athara turned to the trooper nearest her.

“Trace that transmission, immediately. I want to know where it went. I will retrieve it mys—”

“No.” Athara spun with shock and apprehension as Lord Vader stepped onto the bridge. He was silent for a moment as he surveyed the handiwork of his apprentice and her accompanying squad, his gaze not lingering any longer on the dead trooper with his snapped vertebra than on the bodies of the Rebel command crew before continuing. “No. I will inform the Emperor of the stolen Plans and I will recover them myself. You will find out how the Rebels managed to get past the significant defenses here to steal them and ensure those responsible for failing the Empire are appropriately…dealt with.”

Athara nearly bristled at the order—it was little more than clean-up duty, her rebellious thoughts supplied—her immersion in the Dark Side and her unsettling reaction to the leaked Plans making her far more volatile and obstinate than usual. But Vader ignored her feelings, turning and striding from the bridge with one last order: “you may notify Grand Moff Tarkin that the situation is now in hand and Admiral Paxt is en route. You may also inform him that I am leaving it to him to apprise the Emperor on what has transpired here.” Athara couldn’t help but scowl at the order; just what she needed in her current mood…to trade more veiled barbs with Tarkin.

But just as the door was about to hiss shut behind her Master, he glanced back, fixing Athara with a look even as a wave of dark amusement reached out to brush pointedly against her thoughts.

“And remind him that he has a responsibility in his command of the Death Star to protect the interests of the Empire…not to destroy them. A responsibility he has so far shown himself to be falling short on upholding.” Athara smiled darkly in response before dipping her head in pleased deference, her mood improving drastically.

“Of course, Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I went there…I significantly diverged from Canon…how unlike me, yeah? But really?! How could I not!? I adored everything about Rogue One…except for the Tantive IV being over Scarif (and a couple little details, but we won't get into that here). It bothers me to no end. So I changed it to what I think made far more sense. I am content. :D


	12. Chapter 12

Despite her Master’s permission to call out Tarkin on his arguably reckless decision to unleash the Death Star on the Scarif Base, she still did not look forward to the inevitable conversation.

Especially when the bubble-like viewscreens that dominated the Mon Calamari-designed bridge gave her an unimpeded view of the resultant devastation rippling across the planet below. It was only after several minutes of peering down through the transparesteel floor—could it even be called a floor?—and after receiving a preliminary report from the Imperial troops now swarming the Rebel flagship and watching the _Devastator_ leaving the system with her Master aboard that she ceded that she couldn’t put it off any longer.

With a silent nod to one of the Imperial officers that had only just made it to the bridge a few moments previous, stationing himself near the communication console after informing her that he waited on her order, she indicated for him to initiate the connection between the Rebel ship and the Death Star.

As she waited for the transmission to stabilize, time seemed to drag on forever. But as Tarkin’s hazy blue holographic form appeared before her, she felt like it hadn’t taken long enough.

“Lady Obscura,” he greeted reluctantly, his crisp, contemptuous tone hinting at his impatience, “you have news, I trust?” The answering sneer of distaste on Athara’s face matched his tone, but she refused to allow any other outward indication. Her temper had strengthened her sense of self-possession, it seemed. Besides, she reminded herself, her Master had actually given her permission to chastise the Grand Moff. That was a bonus that perked her up immensely as she reminded herself of that fact. She might as well take what enjoyment she could from the impending exchange. Inhaling a steadying breath she mentally steeled herself before responding.

“Governor Tarkin,” she likewise greeted, barely able to keep either her lingering ire or her wry enjoyment from her voice—though his immediately narrowing eyes suggested he suspected regardless, “I thought you would appreciate an update.” Unable to help herself, Athara pitched her voice in such a way that it conveyed she was doing him a favour instead of following an order; that her report wasn’t borne out of obligation or deference due his position as the thin line of Tarkin’s mouth suggested he would have preferred and even expected.

Well? He wanted to be petty and dismissive toward her? Two could play at that game. Despite her foul mood, she smirked beneath her cowl at the annoyed glint in his eyes as he nodded tightly in acknowledgement, refusing to respond directly to her thinly veiled taunt. If anything, she thought his reaction made it all the more obvious that she’d gotten under his skin. She purposefully drew out the moment before launching into her report, only resuming as he inhaled in obvious preparation to prompt her to get on with it. It was certainly a task to keep her voice level and objective as she relayed the status of their forces without further preamble.

“The Rebel flagship has been secured and we are getting word that all other Rebel ships remaining in the system have been either neutralized, destroyed or are expected to be under Imperial control shortly.” Tarkin gave a minimal nod in acknowledgement before fixing her with a scrutinizing look.

“That is most reassuring to hear, My Lady,” he nearly drawled, condescension lacing his voice, “though, as welcome a report as it is, given how Lord Vader’s ship has already left the system, it is not entirely unexpected.” Athara had to bite back a sharp retort at the tone, reminding herself to play nice lest her permissible scolding be dismissed as petulant retaliation rather than a deserved rebuke. She needed to keep her temper in check this time. Ignoring the subtext of his comment, she pressed on, her own tone pointedly impassive and matter-of-fact.

“My Master has charged me to take command of what remains of Scarif’s forces until Admiral Paxt arrives with relief and reinforcements from the Fleet. In the meantime I am to—handle disciplinary matters for this fiasco.” She nearly snarled the last part, still thoroughly annoyed that such clean-up was even necessary. For an installation like Scarif? The base garrison and in-orbit support of two Star Destroyers should have been more than capable of defending such a critical Imperial outpost.

More than that, the ragtag collection of Rebels that made it to the planet’s surface should never have been able to pass through the shield-gate, much less through the Citadel to get to the Plans. The egregious lack of competence was deplorable and she was fully intending to hold the remaining commanders wholly accountable.

It was almost too bad the Rebel ships and Tarkin’s pre-emptive use of the Death Star’s weapon on Scarif had wiped out most of those responsible…including Krennic…

She nearly snarled in mixed anger and disappointment upon realizing that one, stinging fact.

Tarkin nodded absently, already appearing bored by talk of ‘accountability’ and further stoking Athara’s ire; simply blowing up the base was not still so sufficient as his attitude indicated he believed. But then his gaze sharpened again and he fixed her with a penetrating look.

“And Lord Vader?” Athara pursed her lips at his nearly accusatory tone, silently cursing the Grand Moff’s sudden shift from apathy toward the fallout from the Rebel attack to discerning interest in the reason for her Master’s departure. She held off on replying for a long moment, choosing her words carefully. And when she did resume speaking, her tone was carefully neutral and her pace measured, carefully hiding her own angry concern over the stolen Plans.

“During the assault, Rebels on the planet’s surface managed to locate and transmit the technical plans for the Death Star to their fellows above Scarif. As their ship fell to our forces, a shuttle managed to escape with the Plans. It was targeted immediately and destroyed, but not before they were able to transmit the Plans out of the system. My Master is seeing to their recovery personally.” The hard, almost-smirk that appeared on Tarkin’s face as she spoke was enough to make Athara feel ill, her anger and agitation at the gaunt-faced man’s reaction immediately beginning to vibrate through her body.

“That is most distressing news indeed, My Lady,” was all he said in response at first, his eyes glinting in an expression akin to amusement even as he straightened before continuing, not quite hiding the goading from his voice, “let us hope your Master is up to the task.” Athara couldn’t help but grin tightly as she forced a gracious nod of agreement, the involuntary curling of her lip feeling more like a grimace as she fought to keep her rising anger to herself. Not that she could keep it entirely to herself…

“I’m sure my Master will appreciate your confidence,” she drawled out in response, “after all, it would be troubling indeed for the Rebellion to get their hands on the complete technical data of the Emperor’s new Battlestation.” A frown slowly began to overtake Tarkin’s features, his eyes once again narrowing, this time with thought as Athara’s words sunk in. Athara nearly sighed as a scathing ‘ _finally_ ’ flitted through her thoughts. It would seem the very real and very troubling potential consequences of the Death Star Plans falling into Rebel hands were becoming apparent to the Grand Moff. Of course, only now that he realized his precious Battlestation was threatened did he seem at all concerned. She really should not have been surprised. She could virtually see the cogs of Tarkin’s mind working as he schemed and calculated in the face of this new development.

But then his pensive gaze turned sharp again, zeroing in on Athara with a surprising intensity considering his presence was of the holographic rather than physical variety. “What is even more concerning is that the Plans were able to slip through Lord Vader’s grasp in the first place.” Abruptly Athara’s temper was straining against her already heavily taxed self-control, a genuine growl of anger threatening to break free from her throat.

“The same could be said of you, Governor Tarkin,” she snapped back before she could restrain herself, her patience at its end, “after all, you and your Death Star arrived over Scarif first. Yet, instead of engaging the Rebel Ships as you should have—indeed, as I had begun to arrange—you chose instead to make a show by aiming your new weapon on the planet’s surface.” The man’s lips thinned angrily, his chest inflating with indignation, but Athara had hit her stride, her voice cool and scathing even as she tore into the Grand Moff, “and in doing so, you have just destroyed a critical facility that housed a great many invaluable Imperial secrets and data resources, many of which had no backups in any other location and are now irretrievably lost to the Empire.” It was only then that Athara managed to cut herself off, forcing her temper back under control. Evidently Tarkin came to a similar realization that his temper risked getting the better of him, inhaling deeply and letting it out just as cautiously before allowing himself to speak, though his gaze was positively glacial as it bore into her. Athara could care less.

“I imagine Lord Vader has informed the Emperor of this development?” Athara had to virtually pry her jaw apart so she could respond, her voice surprisingly level and even calm despite the way her heart still thrummed angrily in her chest following her vehement condemnation.

“As delay would only give advantage to the Rebels, My Master wasted no time in pursuing the transmission. As such, Lord Vader has— _requested_ that you make a full report to the Emperor regarding what has transpired here as well as a report on the current situation.” There was no mistaking from her tone that the events over Scarif were intended to rest on Tarkin’s shoulders, hence why informing the Emperor of the Rebel attack had been left to him. After all, she couldn’t help but continue internally, Krennic was his appointment to some extent and thus his responsibility, and Tarkin was the one who obliterated Scarif, destroying irreplaceable Imperial assets and schematics in doing so. Why shouldn’t he be the one to report as much to the Emperor?

Though he’d likely manage to pin most of the blame on the dead…

The only thing that gave her pause in that agreeable line of thought was the realization that since the Grand Moff would certainly try to spin as much of the blame away from himself—something he was particularly skilled at doing—he would also likely do his best to lay a measure of the blame on her Master. It was a good thing Vader intended to inform his Master of the missing Plans himself. Had that particular situation been left to Tarkin to relay? _That_ would have been a real problem. Tarkin’s thin lips curled into a chilly, sneer-like smile as his head dipped minutely at her reply. He didn’t like it one bit, but a part of Athara trilled happily as it recognized the Grand Moff had realized he had no viable counter-argument and was required as a result to comply with her Master’s instruction.

“Then I shall make contact with the Emperor at once,” he conceded with an oily, silky tone that sent a shudder through the Sith apprentice. But she still refused to let it show, maintaining her composure now that she’d managed to regain it after her outburst. She nodded politely back, taking advantage of the opportunity to needle him one last time by affecting her own air of superiority.

“Take care, Tarkin, that it isn’t the Empire you hurt with this new Superweapon of yours.” And with a subtle flick of her wrist beneath her dark cloak to channel her focus, she used the Force to terminate the transmission herself, leaving a fuming Tarkin with the image of her standing immoveable and poised as his holographic double blinked out of existence.

Turning only once the connection with the Death Star disconnected, Athara looked down to Scarif, thought of Tarkin already fading as she took in the implications of the awesome yet terrible sight below. Already, the blast wave had spread far beyond the point where Athara knew the Citadel and its sprawling base had once been.

From where the Rebel ship hung in orbit, the wave looked like it was moving impossibly slowly, creeping across the surface of the planet like a gentle tide.

But she knew it was an illusion only. In reality, the blast front would be moving impossibly fast, the scorching wall of light wiping out anything and everything in its path instantly; structures, ships, landmasses…living beings. As she stared down at it, she could almost swear she could see the oceans boiling and evaporating as the blast wave swept over the once vibrantly cerulean waters, the clouds forming in its wake luminescent, milky-white and dense from fire and steam; very different from the clouds of ash and rock dust that even now choked Jedha’s skies.

It was unforgiving. Instantaneous. Merciless.

She gasped in a breath, her eyes beginning to prickle traitorously as the weight of her horror began to emerge from where she’d shoved it aside in a corner of her mind, pressing mercilessly upon her chest as she watched the blast spread, just as powerless above as anyone left on the surface.

If there was even anyone left.

As the horror truly sunk in, so did searing realization:

This was the Empire now.

And what she saw was bleak indeed. Not that she’d ever truly held any illusions to the contrary; Palpatine’s Empire was twisted, corrupt, morally bankrupt…and perilously close to that terrifying threshold of outright evil.

 _No_ , the small, tremulous voice that she’d only begun to recognize on Jedha all those months ago insisted: it _is_ evil.

And she was an agent of it.

Her chest constricted tighter still; she was a cog in the Imperial machine, the same machine that now contained the Death Star in all its brutal, terrible glory.

But what could she really do? Such was her circumstance. It was what she’d been raised to be a part of. It was her life; she _was_ Vader’s Shadow. She was nothing beyond that. In truth? If she were to step beyond the role she was expected to play? For good or evil? To run or fight?

She would be as good as dead.

Yet the Force fluttered calmly in the back of her mind—it was awfully reminiscent of the comforting feeling—and it seemed to whisper.

 _A choice is coming_.

All at once the memory of the blind monk’s words were echoing the whisper, just as quiet but just as assured: _the Dark Path is not the only Path._

The damp prickle in the corner of her eyes renewed as her heart felt like it faltered beneath the uncertainty she couldn’t control even as the whispers persisted on the edge of her subconscious, weak but determined.

The Dark Path was the only path she saw before her…at least, it was just now. Her breath steadied as her mind seemed to calm at that particular thought. Perhaps…one day. Perhaps she needed only to bide her time.

But for now, she knew her place, her role, and she wouldn’t question it. She would fulfill her duties, upholding the Empire no matter that she had always held a measure of contempt and doubt in it and its Master.

She would do as her Master expected of her just as she always had. After all, nothing she’d ever done had been _for_ the Empire; it had been for her Master. For his sake, and the sake of the loyalty she bore him, she would tamp down her own uncertainties. She would forge on ahead as her Master had taught her, no matter that the path laid before her suddenly seemed far from certain and even darker than even she’d realized.

But as she looked down at the fiery wave of devastation as it slowly consumed Scarif, one thing and one thing alone was perfectly clear to Athara.

The Death Star was an abomination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my lovelies? That, I'm afraid, is that. We have reached the end of Rogue One and have caught up with the Original Trilogy and Athara's main story. So if you haven't read "Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow" yet, there's no time like the present! ;)
> 
> Just as with my other Lady Adyé stories, I don't have the words to adequately thank you all for favouriting, following, reviewing and, most importantly of all, for reading!
> 
> However! This is not the last time we will see Athara! Not only is Part Three of my main trilogy still ongoing along with my One-shot collection…I am fully intending to take on a little 'What If' project. It won't be out soon, that I can say for certain, but it will eventually find its way out of my overactive imagination. In the meantime, just like with my other stories, I am going to post a handy little guide to the rest of The Lady Adyé Series following this chapter. So be sure to check it out! Something new might catch your attention!
> 
> So to conclude: Thank you again. I really don't have the adequate words to describe just how grateful I am for everyone who read my little foray back into Athara's world.
> 
> It means so much to me to share it and see other people enjoying the stuff that comes out of my overactive imagination.
> 
> As always, I hope you'll leave me a comment if you enjoyed, which I hope you did! :) And of course, questions, comments, exclamations of disbelief or approval, theories or grievances…all welcome! (so long as it's related to the story, of course :P)
> 
> And one final time, Thank you all again from the bottom of my heart. I hope our *virtual* paths cross again.
> 
> May the Force be with you, and Happy Reading!
> 
> DarkLadyAthara


	13. The Story Continues...

Hello There, My Lovely Readers,

If you are reading this, you have read and (hopefully) loved the direct Prequel (of sorts) to Athara's story! Well, there's more to her story and more to the Lady Adyé Story-verse than just Lady Obscura: A Rogue One Story. The adventure continues, my Star Wars-loving friends!

* * *

The true prequel to Athara's story is Neva's story,  **Lady Amalia: The Almost Queen**. If you haven't read it yet, I very highly recommend it! It's the story of Neva and Obi-wan Kenobi and their star-crossed romance.

_Lady Amalia: The Almost Queen_ _:_ _Neva Amalia Adyé had been a Princess, an almost-Queen and an Aide to Senator Amidala. She had come to Coruscant to be closer to the one person she couldn't be with; her Jedi. Focus on RotS with some AotC flashbacks. Obi-wan/OC with some Padme/Anakin. Prequel to "Lady Obscura: Little More Than a Shadow" and Part 1 of the Lady Adyé Trilogy_

* * *

As I'm sure most of you have figured out - especially since most of you read it before you made your way to Lady Obscura: A Rogue One Story - starting where aROS left off is  **Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow**. If you haven't read it yet, I very highly recommend it as well!

_Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow:_ _Athara has known nothing but Vader's protection her whole life. The Rebel Alliance is growing stronger and when the depth of Athara's powers come to the Emperor's attention, she can do nothing but run. It's then that everything changes. Ep. IV through to Ep. VI; (eventually) LS/OC; Sequel to "Lady Amalia" and Part 2 of the Lady Adyé Trilogy._

* * *

Next up is the third story in the Trilogy,  **Lady Adyé: The Resistance Commander**. It's all about Ana Adyé, the next generation of our awesome Adyé women! And wouldn't you know it, she's a pilot for the Resistance and about to face the events of Episode VII and beyond!

_Lady Adyé: The Resistance Commander_ _:_ _As Red Leader with the Resistance, Commander Ana Adyé was perfectly content living without the Force. Thanks to the shadows in her past, she wanted nothing to do with it. But when it wakes, stirred by events a long time coming, Ana doesn't know anymore if she can resist its call. Part 3 in the Lady Adyé Trilogy. LS/OC, HS/LO, PD/OC_

* * *

And finally, don't forget about the One-Shot Companion Series,  **Their Lady Adyé** : a series of one-shots that take place during, before or after the Lady Adyé Trilogy. Each of these instalments will be alternate PoVs/scenes that, for one reason or another, didn't make it into the main stories.

_Their Lady Adyé_ _:_ _A series of one-shots from during, before or after stories of the"Lady Adyé" trilogy, which centre around Neva, Athara and Ana Adyé. Most of these one-shot will be alternate PoVs/scenes that, for one reason or another, didn't make it into "Lady Amalia: The Almost-Queen", "Lady Obscura: Little More than a Shadow" or "Lady Adye: The Resistance Commander". Featuring Luke, Han, Obi-wan, Vader, Leia, and of course, Neva, Athara and Ana._

* * *

Of course, you can find any of these new additions through my profile or basic search. I hope to see you there and I hope you enjoy!

Happy Reading,

And May the Force be with You!

DLA


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